


Too Few Rounds In The Ring And Not Enough Settled Scores

by ladypigswagon



Series: Irresistible [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Magic and Science, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Nogitsune Trauma, Older Stiles Stilinski, Rimming, Sentient Nematon, Smoker Stiles, Smoking, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: It’s dark in the void. Sometimes he feels like a shadow suspended on dust. Sometimes he feels like he’s floating through space, detached and weightless. Sometimes it feels as if he’s lying on the surface of a lake, being slowly spun around by gentle waves. Always, he feels cold. It’s the kind of chill that seeps through the skin, permeating the bones. It hollows him out, leaving him empty. The void is dark and cold and he floats through it. If he’s lucky, he’ll become so numb that he won’t feel it when the blood starts dripping. It starts with a few drops, usually on his forehead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is the second part of my Irresistible Series - the same events but from Stiles point of view. This means that there are a lot of scenes that are the SAME as the previous fic however they are from Stiles perspective. There are also scenes that explain gaps in the previous fic as obviously, we are hearing Stiles part of the story. 
> 
> Happy Reading!

It’s dark in the void. Sometimes he feels like a shadow suspended on dust. Sometimes he feels like he’s floating through space, detached and weightless. Sometimes it feels as if he’s lying on the surface of a lake, being slowly spun around by gentle waves.

 

Always, he feels cold.

 

It’s the kind of chill that seeps through the skin, permeating the bones. It hollows him out, leaving him empty.

 

The void is dark and cold and he floats through it. If he’s lucky, he’ll become so numb that he won’t feel it when the blood starts dripping. It starts with a few drops, usually on his forehead.

 

It becomes a hurricane.

 

He’s drowning in blood, it fills his nose and mouth until that’s all he can taste and smell. It feels like damnation. He chokes. Closes his eyes and prays for absolution.

 

When he opens his eyes, he is standing at the foot of the Nematon, knee deep in corpses. Blood stains his body. He can’t see his tattoos; they are hidden beneath his scarlet war paint. He is elbow deep in the fluid, shaking hands dyed with the lives he has taken. The corpses open their mouths and begin their haunting mantra.

 

“ _You liked it, you felt in control, you felt powerful!”_

 

He raises blood soaked hands to his ears, trying to block out the chant but it gets louder and louder and louder until…

 

Until Stiles falls out of bed, sweat dripping into his eyes and the coppery taste of blood on his tongue.

 

Stiles pushes the sheets away, breathing labored. He gathers his knees to his chest in an effort to make himself smaller. One hand grips his elbow, the other on his shoulder. It’s only when he feels wetness on his chin that he realizes that he has bitten his lip so hard that it’s split. He laps at the cut with his tongue, grimacing at the taste. The alarm clock on the bedside table beeps, signaling the hour. It’s four am.

 

Two hours more than yesterday but four less than the day before. Stiles runs a hand over his face, cringing when it comes away sweaty. He feels disgusting. Stiles stands up, falling back on the bed when his thighs quiver and legs threaten to give way. He curses softly, shivers running down his spine. He’s putting himself back together, bones realigning themselves as he tries to understand his body again. His hand scrambles on the bedside cabinet, switching on the lamp before grabbing the cigarette packet.

 

His hands are still shaking when he presses one between his lips. He uses an incantation to light it, afraid that he will drop the lighter and set the whole place ablaze. The first drag settles something within him. His body is his own again, not a meat suit to be played with and abused. He is no longer corrupted.

 

The Nogitsune is gone but its specter rattles around his skull. A ghost that likes to remind him of things he would rather forget; a shadow that fizzles through his veins like electricity.

 

He summons the ashtray from the other side of the room. It materializes in his hand. Flicking ash into it, Stiles checks his phone. There’s a text from Braeden and a voicemail from an unknown number. He leaves the voicemail, reading the text whilst taking a long drag. It’s a generic update; Braeden is still at home, she’ll call him when she has time. He chucks his phone on the bed, stubbing out the cigarette.

 

Braeden has been gone for a month. Stiles has long got over the weirdness of waking up alone. He’s not angry that’s she been gone for so long; it makes sense that she would want to be there for her family after a funeral. Funerals are brief, but the paperwork is endless. Stiles always marveled at the amount of paperwork that followed his mother’s death; how her life was reduced to files and letters and legal deeds.

 

Stiles pulls off his t-shirt, it had begun to stick to his skin. He yanks down his boxers, leaving them on the floor as he pads off to the bathroom. He flicks on the bathroom light; it bathes him in an artificial light that feels almost clinical like a hospital. It bleaches his skin, makes his tattoos faded. The pipes make a clanging noise before the water spurts out of the lime scale ridden showerhead. Stiles looks at his reflection in the mirror. The cut on his lip has already clotted, vivid red against cracked lips. He pokes the bags under his eyes. He looks paler than usual, it makes the dark circles more obvious. Stiles wonders how he ever got employed given that he permanently looks like he’s on a comedown from the night before.

 

His mouth feels dry, with a bitter taste at the edges. Stiles grabs mouthwash out of the cabinet, swirling it around before spitting into the sink. It replaces the bitterness with peppermint but Stiles stills feels like his teeth are in danger of tumbling out of his gums, ousted by fangs that seek to take their place. He runs his tongue along the edge of his incisors, reminding himself of how blunt they are.

 

He steps into the shower, closing his eyes as the spray washed over him. The water is the wrong side of lukewarm but the apartment came with the job so Stiles can’t really complain. He scrubs vigorously until his skin is pink. Some nights that’s enough. Tonight however Stiles wants to get deep beneath his skin, right to his bones. He doesn’t hurt himself, there’s no point in that but it helps to run an exfoliating scrub over his skin to replicate the feeling.

 

Stepping out of the shower, he dries himself with a shitty Ikea towel. They are a bright, offensive yellow, as if this color will bring sunshine to an otherwise dismal bathroom. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands. He’s been growing it out for a while, wonders if he should return to the buzz cut of his youth.

 

Stiles opens the cabinet, taking out the bottle of Adderall. There are only two left. He takes both, swallowing them dry.

 

//

 

“Well you look awful,” Heather says in greeting. Stiles snorts, taking his usual seat at the counter and pretending to peruse the menu. He already knows what his wants but sometimes it’s nice to consider the other options. Stiles likes having options.

 

Heather wanders over, kitten heels clacking on the black and white tiled floor. She stops in front of him, easily pushing the laminated menu down so she can look at Stiles face. Her blonde hair is in soft waves today instead of its usual ponytail.

 

“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” Heather asks, but it sounds as if she already knows the answer.

 

“Black coffee and a stack of pancakes with maple syrup please,” Stiles, replies, deflecting.

 

“Cute,” Heather says, scribbling down his order lazily. “But it’s not going to work babe.”

 

“Don’t you have other customers to annoy?”

 

“You’re the only one here,” Heather retorts, gesturing the empty diner. Stiles notes how he is in fact the only person here. To be fair, the diner has only been open for about a quarter of an hour. They haven’t even switched on the novelty jukebox yet.

 

Heather pours his coffee but doesn’t hand it to him. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

 

“I don’t think this is how you’re supposed to waitress Heather,” Stiles comments, “Pretty sure in order to enact the social contract of goods and services, the service must be provided in order to get the goods.”

 

He reaches into his back pocket to pull out a crumpled five dollar bill and wave it in Heather’s direction.

 

“Not until you answer my question,” Heather replies. Stiles sighs. Heather’s cute and when he has first arrived, Stiles had considered sleeping with her. But then he realized he was staying longer than intended and Stiles didn’t want to ruin a good thing. This town is too small for that sort of thing.

 

“I slept, not well but I did,” Stiles says, making grabbing gestures at the coffee cup. “Now give me that bitter goodness.”

 

Heather is unimpressed with his answer but doesn’t comment. Stiles sips his coffee, letting the heat soak him from the inside. Nightmares always leave him cold, hot liquids are the best cure. It doesn’t matter that he’s burnt the tip of his tongue; the sensation of heat spreading through him is worth it. He closes his eyes, enjoying the warmth tingling in his chest.

 

The smack of a china plate hitting the plastic diner counter brings Stiles back. The sweet scent of maple syrup intertwined with the pleasant smell of freshly made pancakes results in Stiles stomach growling in anticipation. He reaches for cutlery but Heather grabs his hand, flipping it palm side up.

 

“Want me to tell you your future?” Heather asks, tracing a finger along the lines on Stiles palm, “I’m getting much better at it.”

 

Heather has magic about her, in the way that most humans do. It’s been diluted over generations; she presumably had magical or supernatural ancestors. Stiles is putting his money on magical given Heather’s interest in fortune telling. He indulges her.

 

“Go ahead,” Stiles says, grabbing the cutlery with his other hand, using the side of the fork to slice up the edge of a pancake. He chews happily whilst Heather studies his hand with a furrowed brow.

 

“An old friend is going to come back into your life,” Heather muses, “Sooner than you think.”

 

She lets go of Stiles hand, smiling brightly.

 

“I think you’re full of shit Heather,” Stiles replies, “I don’t have any old friends. I don’t have any friends period.”

 

Heather shakes her head, her curls bouncing.

 

“We’ll see won’t we,” Heather says, in an all-knowing tone as she walks off to deal with the customers slowing filling up the worn pleather booths. The dulcet tones of Tom Jones ‘ _What’s New Pussycat?’_ drifts over the diner from the jukebox that has in truth seen better days. Stiles eats his pancakes.

 

//

 

Everything in the pottery shop is hideous. Stiles has long since accepted this and doesn’t even question when the next awful batch of stock arrives. He dutifully puts it on the shelves, sells to a few locals but mostly tourists, sneaks out for a smoke, collects a weekly paycheck and trudges upstairs to the apartment. He keeps his head down; he doesn’t get involved in local politics and waits for Braeden to come get him.

 

The shop is quiet today. It’s only the beginning of summer; schools are still in session therefore it is unlikely that Stiles will get many families passing through. A few old ladies came in to browse before lunchtime, the kind that will pinch your cheeks and give you hard candy from their purses. They shook their heads at the sight of Stiles pale appearance and told him to get more sleep. Stiles had smiled crookedly in return.

 

Now the shop is empty. Stiles uses this opportunity to sneak out for a smoke. He’s standing by the back door, one foot holding it open, cigarette in hand, poised to light when he hears the jingle of the shop bell. Stiles sighs exasperatedly, putting the cigarette back in the packet. He drops it on top of the box of stock next to the back door with the silent promise to come back for them later.

 

He puts one foot over the threshold of the main body of the shop, mouth open to issue some platitude in greeting when he looks up.

 

It’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Stiles stops walking, stuck in the doorway, unable to continue forward or go back. He wants to count his fingers, check if he’s dreaming but this has the cold, bitter taste of reality to it and Stiles knows that this moment is real. Real and tangible and unavoidable.

 

“Hello Stiles,” Peter says. His voice sounds raw, as if those two words were ripped out of him. All at once, Stiles comes back to himself, panic trickling down his spine and coiling in his stomach. His hand goes out to grip the doorframe, a way to ground himself.

 

“No, no, no, no, no way in hell. Whatever shit you’ve got yourself into, I want no part in it. Get some other mage ok, I don’t do that shit anymore, the sharpest thing I get close to now is a craft knife. I am done. I am _done_ with that life.”

 

Peter looks agonized, but raises an arm in what he probably assume is a placating manner. It just makes Stiles more angry, as if Peter thinks he can just waltz back into his life unannounced and suddenly everything is ok again. As if Stiles hasn’t been running for seven years.

 

“Stiles I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t a last resort,” Peter says. Stiles snorts, folding his arms. He throws in a derisive eye roll for good measure. It’s then that he notices the alpha in the room. The alpha appears to be about sixteen and has an earnest puppy look about him. He’s grimacing at the stock; probably wishing he was anywhere but here. Stiles can sympathize.

 

“I don’t care, you and alpha buddy can fuck off back to Beacon Hills cause I am not helping you.”

 

“Stiles, meet Scott McCall, true alpha,” Peter says, gesturing to the alpha, who smiles and waves. Stiles raises an eyebrow. Whilst true alphas are incredibly rare, if Peter thinks that this is going to be impressive and/or persuasive then clearly Peter has forgotten who Stiles is as a person.

 

“True alpha?” Stiles asks in a deliberate sarcastic tone. “Well that changes everything.”

 

“Really?” Scott sounds so eager it’s almost heartbreaking.

 

“No,” Stiles replies, giving him a pitying look.

 

“Stiles,” Peter chides, like Stiles is a surly teenager disrespecting an authority figure, “Please be reasonable.”

 

“No Peter,” Stiles says, unfolding his arms and making a gesture that he really hopes conveys how fucked up this situation is. “I’m not going down that road again, ok? And you can’t manipulate me into doing so; nothing you say is going to change my mind.”

 

Stiles just can’t deal with this. The nightmare dances at the back of his mind, a painful reminder of the last time he was in Beacon Hills, the last time he used unorthodox methods. He turns away, ready to retreat and smoke his way through several packets.

 

“The Nematon is dying,” Scott blurts and Stiles stops. He must have heard wrong, there’s no way that is the reason Peter is here.

 

“What?” Stiles asks. He turns around slowly.

 

“It’s dying and it’s going to take the whole town with it. We’ve tried everything and Talia said you’re an expert,” Scott replies. He looks so young and desperate, genuine fear and worry in his eyes. Stiles has seen that expression on multiple faces and each time it makes his heart twinge in an unpleasant way. In a sickening way, it makes him feel needed.

 

“What about Deaton? Morrell? Or hell even Jennifer Blake?” Stiles can’t believe that literally any other magic user in a twenty-mile radius wouldn’t be competent enough to solve their issue. Stiles doesn’t trust Jennifer Blake as far as he can throw her without magical assistance, but even he can admit she’s a powerful emissary.

 

“No one knows the Nematon like you, it’s not responding and if we’re not careful we’ll end up crawling in wannabe darachs,” Peter states sounding every bit the second in command he was trained to be.

 

“Please, lives are at stake,” Scott pleads. Lives are always at stake; it’s always life or death, always a crisis, always something immanent and dangerous.

 

“And what about my life?” Stiles snaps, ignoring Scott’s impressive impression of a kicked puppy and staring directly at Peter with tears pricking his eyes, “I am making a life here. If I do this, I don’t think I can come back from it. Not a second time.”

 

He’s not lying per say, more bending the truth to suit his need. It’s not like Peter is going to call him out on it. Still, Stiles casts his eyes to the floor, trying to stop himself from pulling down shelves and breaking every goddamn ugly piece of pottery to calm his rage.

 

“The whole town will die if you don’t,” Peter says, reaching for Stiles hands. Stiles jerks away, letting Peter’s hand drop, “Children will die. **_Please_** Stiles.”

 

Stiles cups the back of his neck, nails digging in. He looks up at Peter, eyes threatening to spill tears.

 

“How did you even find me?” He already knows.

 

“Stiles,” Peter reprimands, “I should have thought that was obvious.”

 

Stiles grimaces.

 

“I’m expected to drop everything just because you came calling, like I owe you something. If I do this, I won’t come back the same, hell I might not even come back at all.” Stiles tries to keep his voice from cracking but he knows he doesn’t succeed. He’s looking at Peter and he’s looking at his past, the good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful. He’s staring at something he’s been trying to escape, at pain he’s been trying not to feel. A pain, that in truth, is sometimes the only thing he can feel.

 

“You don’t owe me,” Peter replies, pushing his coat back to place his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “But I believe you owe Deaton a fair few favors.”

 

Stiles laugh is dismissive. Deaton isn’t the type to call in favors, he usually manipulates the situation through vague hints until his desired result occurs. However on occasion, Deaton has been known to cash in.

 

“Yeah, and only Deaton gets to call them in.” Stiles makes a show of looking around the shop. “Doesn’t look like he’s here.”

 

“Consider us calling it in on his behalf.”

 

Stiles hands curl into fists. He uncurls them, fingers trembling. Owing Deaton a favor is appealing to Stiles sense of honor. Not that Stiles has one, but considering that Deaton has a nasty way of needing incredibly difficult things, this could be a way to wipe the slate clean. Theoretically Stiles can get in and out of Beacon Hills within a few days. If he’s lucky, a few hours. If he’s really, really lucky, without seeing his Dad or the pack.

 

Stiles gnaws at his lip, splitting it open.

 

“Shit,” Stiles mutters, tongue lapping at the blood. Peter reaches one hand into his coat pocket, offering a white handkerchief. It’s a familiar gesture, Stiles tendency to spill and break stuff due to clumsiness. Clumsiness that is significantly less since an impostor wore Stiles body and made it graceful. Stiles ignores him, turning away to walk to the counter.

 

“Give me an hour to pack,” Stiles says, “I’m gonna need some things.”

 

//

 

 

Stiles quits his job, packs up his meager belongings from the apartment, manages to smoke a cigarette and cover himself in deodorant to hide the smell, all in the space of forty minutes. He spends the last twenty, staring at his phone and wondering if he should text Braeden. In the end, he decides not to and will call her later if necessary.

 

Scott and Peter’s expression at the sight of Stiles transport would make him laugh, if he wanted to show any other emotion apart from contempt right now. Stiles admits the Roscoe is a little dinged up and sometimes she throws a hissy fit if he tries to go up steep hills too quickly but he loves her. She’s hardy and rustic.

 

“Um, we have tickets for a flight back to California” Scott says, trying and failing not to look scared.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles scoffs, “cause airport security is known for being really lenient when it comes to this kind of stuff.”

 

Stiles reaches into his duffle bag and pulls out a large serrated knife, waving it in Scott’s direction. Scott’s eyes follow it uneasily. God this kid is going to be so easy to mess with. Stiles smirks before shoving the knife back in the bag, chucking it into the back of Roscoe alongside Peter and Scott’s overnight bags before slamming the door.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says delicately, “When was the last time this car was serviced?”

 

God, he’s so precious.

 

“Um,” Stiles mutters, opening the driver side door, head turning to look at Peter, “Never.”

 

“What?”

 

“Thing runs on magic,” Stiles says as he climbs inside, “literally tied to my magic source, it’ll only die if I die. Now get in, I thought we were running out of time.”

 

Unfortunately Peter decides to climb into the passenger seat beside Stiles. Stiles was hoping Scott would call shotgun and Peter would be forced to sit in the back. Ok, that might be a little childish, but Stiles is really feeling the avoid the problem until it goes away strategy is a very overlooked coping method. If he doesn’t bring up the topic of him leaving then they won’t have to talk about it. Stiles clicks his finger and the engine roars to life. The radio comes on, an irritating static mess, so Stiles fiddles with it. He has to bang the top a couple of times, muttering to Roscoe absentmindedly before Fall Out Boy starts playing through the speakers. _Irresistible_ begins and whilst it isn’t completely accurate for this situation, Stiles feels that it reflects it slightly. Peter hates this kind of music, would never let it play in the house.

 

“Really Stiles?” Peter questions, eyes flicking to the radio and back to Stiles. Stiles puts one wrist is leaning over the wheel, the other hand on the gear stick.

 

“Driver picks the music,” Stiles states, “Shotgun is gonna keep his mouth shut until we get to California otherwise shotgun is gonna be left by the side of the road.”

 

Scott chuckles and Stiles is counting that as a win. The laughter quickly dissolves into coughing when Peter turns around to glare at Scott.

 

“Buckle up wolves,” Stiles mutters, yanking the glove compartment open and pulling a pair of aviators out. He opens them one handed then puts them on his face, grinning crookedly at Peter. “It’s gonna be a long ride.”

 

//

 

Stiles stifles any attempt at conversation. Every time Peter tries, the volume on the radio just happens to increase. Thing is, Stiles can keep his heart rate steady but he’s terrified. Terrified of what will happen when Peter opens his mouth. Peter doesn’t know the complete story; no one really knows the accurate version of events. And yeah, Stiles truth is always going to be different from someone else’s because of perspective, but the point is, is that Stiles has been lying for years and he doesn’t think he can handle it when Peter finds out. Stiles needs to make it right because he can lie to himself as much as wants, delude himself into thinking that this is about repaying Deaton but in truth this is about redemption.

 

Redemption for his greatest sin.

 

Stiles know that he’s at fault. He’s the one who ran away, he’s the one who refused to confront his fears. He’s the one who abandoned the pack. Which in retrospect was fucking stupid because not only did it hurt like a motherfucker, it added to all the other guilt he was tripping over. He might as well have shot himself in the heart with a slow acting poisonous dart because that would have hurt significantly less.

 

For seven years, Stiles has been trying to outrun his past and now it’s finally catching up.

 

Turns out Heather was right after all.

 

They drive until nightfall, pulling into a cheap looking motel. Cheap being the operative word, the décor hasn’t left the 1970’s and there’s a faint smell of mediocre alcohol soaked into the very walls.

 

“I’m not paying expenses,” Stiles states. “You can sort yourselves out.”

 

The old woman behind the counter views them with dubious eyes enlarged by huge spectacles. When the overhead lighting flickers, Stiles can see the outline of her bat wings and hair entwined with serpents. Stiles isn’t in the mood to discuss his guilt so he lets his eyes bleed pearlescent while he pays for his room.

 

“Be ready at seven tomorrow,” Stiles shouts over his shoulder, “I’m not opposed to leaving you here.”

 

The door clicks shut behind him and Stiles is alone in the tragic 70’s room. He is dying for a cigarette but the room is non-smoking, which is surprising given that along with alcohol, cigarette smoke seems to permeate the wallpaper. He chucks his bag on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt to replace it with a large t-shirt he bought after killing the Nokken in Tampa. It has the Kumba Roller-coaster on it. Braeden had made Stiles ride it and he’s thrown up literally two seconds after getting off whilst Braeden cackled with laughter.

 

He retrieves his cigarettes from the bottom of the bag. He heads outside to lean against the railings. He clicks his fingers. White smoke that smells like menthol curls up around him. He tucks one leg behind the other, one arm lying on the railing, the wrist hanging limply. The other holds the cigarette, his elbow feeling cold against the rusty metal.

 

He hears Peter’s door open. Stiles takes a long drag on his cigarette, blowing it out slowly. Peter is silent behind him, Stiles figures that Peter is probably judging him.

 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Peter says, breaking the silence between them. To be fair, Stiles thought Peter would knock the cigarette out of his hand and give him a long lecture on the fragility of human lungs but then again, Peter has been oddly silent about everything that has been questionable about Stiles life choices thus far. Maybe he thinks he’s not allowed.

 

“Bad habit,” Stiles replies, choosing not to look at Peter. He focuses on a particular beat up Tan Corolla. “One of many. Blood magic is an addiction, had to replace it with something equally addictive. This seemed better than drinking or drugs. I didn’t want to feel out of control.”

 

Peter comes to stand beside him. Werewolves always run a little hot and Stiles can feel that heat. He almost wants to reach out, lift Peter’s arm and press his face into Peter’s shoulder but restrains himself. Just because he cannot get warm doesn’t mean he has the right to touch.

 

“So,” Stiles muses, stubbing the cigarette out on the rusty metal before flicking it over the railings. “A true alpha in Hale territory. Talia’s ok with that?”

 

He’s been dying to ask. Curiosity wasn’t something that could be forcibly removed from his personality, regardless of his trauma.

 

“Scott doesn’t want to cause any trouble,” Peter says, sounding like he both admires and despises Scott’s morality. “He genuinely believes in co-operation and harmonious living. Reluctant to spill any blood in unnecessary territory brawls.”

 

“That would defeat the purpose of being a true alpha,” Stiles points out, yanking the cigarette box from the back pocket of his jeans. He pulls one out and shoves the box back where it came from. Putting the cigarette between his lips, he mutters an incantation and it lights itself.

 

“I suppose it does,” Peter replies softly.

 

“He won’t be pleased about the blood magic then,” Stiles jokes, smirking sarcastically.

 

“It is unlikely.”

 

Stiles takes a few drags on his cigarette. Silence settles between them, the muggy night air encouraging Stiles to finish his cigarette quickly. Then he pokes the metaphorical elephant.

 

“Does our deal still hold?” Stiles asks, flicking the second cigarette stub off the railing. He’s pretty sure it ends up in the window basket full of dead flowers below.

 

“Deal?” Peter enquires. Stiles rolls his eyes. Good to see he’s still a complete asshole. He’s been rather soft spoken for the past few hours, Stiles was almost worried about him.

 

“Don’t be a dick,” Stiles responds, “You know what I mean.”

 

Peter sighs. It’s a familiar mix of fondness and exasperation.

 

“Yes our deal still holds.”

 

“Good. Everything else may be fucked but I’m gonna need you to do this.”

 

“I said I would, regardless of how things ended.”

 

Stiles runs his thumb across his bottom lip, catching the nail on a bit of loose skin. He drops his hand, his tongue darting out to smooth over the rip. He needs to take better care of his lips, they’re so cracked and dry, it’s gross.

 

“It’s the one thing I’m relying on Peter,” Stiles says, “Don’t fuck it up.”

 

He knows he’s being hostile, but it’s just easier to be. Peter doesn’t need more shit because Stiles can’t control his fucking feelings, so he turns away, walking back to his room. He flops down on the bed, falling asleep whilst breathing in the faint musk of dust and regret.

 

//

 

The days that follow are full of cheap motels and really shitty gas station food. Peter hates cheap food; his lip is permanently curled in distain. Stiles just chugs coffee because he’s out of Adderall and when Peter asks about it, he doesn’t want to say he’s out so he makes a non-committal noise and gesture and just keeps drinking it. After the sixth cup, Stiles becomes numb to the taste.

 

Beacon Hills creeps closer and to deal with his anxiety he keeps changing the radio station. Without meaning to he hums along to old Jamie Cullum songs that Peter introduced him to. He can practically feel Peter’s smile and shuts up pretty quickly.

 

Suddenly they’re a hundred miles away and Stiles wants to puke. He doesn’t because he is the master of his own stomach but god he feels awful. Scott calls somebody on the phone and Stiles catches the name Allison. It’s a familiar name and Stiles hazards a guess, hoping that he’s wrong because if he’s right then his opinion of Scott will drop dramatically.

 

“Allison Argent?” Stiles mutters. Peter nods. Ah well, its not like Stiles opinion of Scott was that high to begin with.

 

“That’s just fucking stupid.”

 

Stiles catches Peter smirking while he presses the phone to his ear. He tunes out the subsequent conversations, focusing on the dread that’s building in his stomach. He might need to go back on his policy of drinking his problems away.

 

//

 

The Hale House hasn’t changed. Not that Stiles expected it to but winding Roscoe up the forest path fills him with an ache that has grown commonplace under his ribs but today feels fresh. He sits up straight, trying to make himself taller than he feels in the hope that becoming sharp will keep the wolves away.

 

Talia is on the porch. Talia is on the freaking porch and standing behind her is what Stiles thinks is Laura and Deaton is sat in the old wicker chairs and fucking hell. His guilt increases tenfold now that he’s here. Stiles can’t do this. He can’t face his alpha. The alpha. Talia. Whatever.

 

Scott is out of Roscoe before Stiles is even in park, bounding up to greet Talia. They scent mark each other. Stiles can’t remember the last time he was scent marked. That’s a lie. Peter scent marked him before he went to work on the day Stiles left. It’s a gesture meant to bring comfort but the thought of it makes Stiles sick. He doesn’t deserve that kind of familiarity.

 

Stiles twirls his key around his index finger. Peter is halfway out of the car, but is looking at Stiles. He probably said something but Stiles isn’t paying attention. He grips his keys tightly in his fist; tongue running along the edge of his teeth, before kicking the door open and exiting.

 

“Alpha Hale,” He says, fighting to keep his voice neutral.

 

“Stiles,” Talia responds, walking down the porch steps to greet him. Her smile is gentle, almost wary. Stiles shakes her outstretched hand but doesn’t initiate scent marking, it’s just not something he can do right now. Talia has perfected the art of looking unaffected but Stiles knows she’s disappointed.

 

“Uncle Stiles, is that really you?” Laura asks, as she thumps down the porch steps. She looks incredulous, completely disbelieving. Stiles hopes his expression is normal and relaxed.

 

“Sort of,” Stiles teases awkwardly. “But let’s keep the Uncle Stiles to a minimum, not exactly your uncle am I.”

 

Stiles never officially made it that far. The thumb on his left hand gently runs up his ring finger. Laura opens her mouth to argue but it snaps shut quickly. Stiles smiles awkwardly as silence descends. It’s a silence that claws at Stiles throat, and he has the sudden urge to fill it.

 

“Well, let’s get a look at this Nematon so I can do my thing and then get the fuck out of here,” Stiles says, walking around to the back of the Jeep to retrieve his duffle bag. He swings it onto his shoulder, looking out to the trees to avoid looking at Talia or worse Peter. The knives clack together and the sound is staggering compared to the silence of the Preserve. It’s unnerving, there’s not even the rustle of a leaf or buzz of a bee.

 

“Follow me,” Talia says, marching into the woods. Stiles walks behind her, black boots crunching on the hard earth.

 

As they enter the tree line Stiles can feel the Nematon and knows that it recognizes his presence. The ground beneath the old tree rumbles.

 

//

 

Stiles is really disappointed. It seems that idiocy is now a qualification required for the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s department. Deputy Dimwit advancing on the Nematon with a chainsaw, with the encouragement of other complete dickwads in uniform, is really letting the side down. He’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid but Stiles is betting on the latter.

 

“Hey!” Stiles shouts, enjoying the way Deputy Dimwit flinches, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

 

The Deputy stops, mouth dropping open like a startled goldfish as Stiles marches over to him.

 

“The Nematon is the problem,” He stammers, “If we remove the problem.”

 

“Do you want to level the whole town? Stiles asks, pushing Deputy Dimwit backwards. The deputy stumbles, dropping the chainsaw, which manages to miss his feet by millimeters. It would have been more satisfying if the Deputy had cut off a toe or five.

 

“Jesus, who the fuck raised you?” Stiles snaps, not really expecting an answer. Dimwit splutters, going red in the face. Stiles is pretty sure he hears Laura snort behind him.

 

“You,” Stiles instructs, poking Dimwit in the chest, and speaking slowly because he’s evidently talking to someone very ignorant. “Stand over there like a good deputy so I don’t have to feed you to the Nematon. Though I doubt you’d make a suitable meal.”

 

Dimwit looks like he’s about to argue but he looks at something over Stiles shoulder and meekly returns to the group of Deputies. Stiles lets his bag fall to the ground. He bites his lip, tilting his head up to look at the tree. It’s a freaking mess. Withered, blackened. It’s dying. Logically Stiles knows that this isn’t entirely his fault, he’s not the one killing the tree. But from the looks of it, since he left, there’s been no guardian. No one to protect it. And that is his fault.

 

Stiles takes a walk around the base of the tree, muttering observations under his breath and bending over occasionally to inspect any roots that are visible. The Nematon is present in his mind, a faded, weak presence but the bond is still there. It’s angry, justifiably so, but still pleased to see him. Like a grandparent that complains that you don’t visit enough but still gives you a big slice of pie and pinches your cheeks.

 

Stiles rolls his shoulders a few times, trying to loosen the tight line of his shoulders. He pushes the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbow, folding them over a few times so that they’re not hanging around his wrists. He breathes in and out slowly, flexing his fingers. The Nematon shivers, anticipating Stiles actions.

 

“This may not go to plan, so I’d stand back a bit if I were you,” Stiles declares. Stiles ignores the shuffling of feet, concentrating on not having a freak-out. Rebonding with the Nematon is either going to go swimmingly or it’s gonna be a goddamn mess and Stiles is more prepared for the second option. Stiles closes his eyes and places his right hand on the trunk of the Nematon.

 

It’s like being hooked up to ten thousand car batteries. The ground shakes beneath his feet, the Nematon quivering beneath his hand. Stiles struggles to hang on as the ancient magic built into the very soil flows through him. He thinks his eyes open at some point but it’s hard to tell. His tattoos are writhing, colors flickering as they gorge on magical energy. The Nematon is a solid presence in his mind again, an presence that’s in pain. Serious, agonizing pain and Stiles can feel every single part of it. His tree is being poisoned.

 

Phantom poison fills his veins. It aches in a way that Stiles can only describe as swallowing starlight, a sickening heartburn. Stiles takes his hand away from the tree, stumbling backwards. He falls to his knees. The Nematon tries to provide mental comfort through a strange series of soothing images of the forest in full bloom. Stiles’ stomach is roiling.

 

“I got good news and bad news,” Stiles announces. Then he vomits black sludge all over the ground and oh god, it smells of rotting leaves. It’s so gross. Peter is somehow already beside him. Stiles waves him away. Another round of black gunk makes it’s way out of his mouth. It’s so unpleasant; it’s got leaves and acorns in it. He spits out a few more leaves, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Stiles wants about six pints of mouthwash.

 

“Bad news is, the Nematon is being poisoned,” Stiles says, getting to his feet. He knows Peter offered him a hand which he ignored but now is not the time to be examining those feelings. “Practically nightly so regardless of what I do to fix it, unless we stop the person doing it, my input will be null and void. If it continues to be poisoned then it will tear the town apart, and given how far the poison has already spread, that’s gonna be sooner rather than later.”

 

“What will it take to fix it?” Talia asks. Stiles grimaces.

 

“Blood magic would be the best bet,” He replies. Saying it out loud has a finality to it. Like it’s unavoidable now, he has to spill blood in order to save bloodshed. “But it’s gonna take a lot of blood. Probably a whole town full.”

 

“What like a pint each?” Laura asks. Stiles shakes his head.

 

“I mean literally a whole town full,” Stiles says, “Drained dry, which would defeat the purpose of me fixing the damn thing in the first place.”

 

Talia and Peter share a grim look.

 

“And the good news?” Scott enquires. It’s endearing how optimistic he is. Stiles almost feels bad that life is probably going to beat that out of him.

 

“I lied about the good news,” Stiles replies. He winces before vomiting more black gunk. Peter takes a step back to avoid getting it on his shoes. Stiles isn’t aiming for Peter’s shoes but this sludge has a mind of it’s own.

 

“We need to call a town meeting,” Talia says, using her mightier than thou alpha voice, “We need to go over our options.”

 

“Probably a good plan,” Stiles says. He dry heaves. The taste is abysmal. “Might want to wait until I stop recreating the exorcist though.”

 

Talia nods. Stiles smirks. Then he throws up the bones of a small mouse and kind of wants to die.

 

//

 

Stiles forgot town meetings were a thing. It’s not like he used to attend or anything. Of course, Scott and his beta weren’t a part of them. And Chris Argent is here instead of his dickhead of a father. Stiles hates Gerard with a feeling that can only be described as a burning passion to take a baseball bat to his head until there’s nothing left but a squishy red stain.

 

Chris Argent is watching Stiles, suspicion written in the lines on his forehead. Stiles ignores him, placing a cigarette between his lips. He figures if he smokes it quickly, then he won’t be itching for one all through the meeting. Peter drifts closer to him. He’s been hiding in the shadows, watching everyone like the nosy bastard he is. Peter relishes in knowing everyone’s dirty little secrets.

 

“How did Finstock get re-elected?” Stiles asks to keep Peter from broaching a topic that might involve feelings.

 

“God knows,” Peter replies, “Bribery I assume.”

 

“Who ran against him?”

 

“Whittemore.”

 

Stiles snorts. Finstock wouldn’t need bribery if he was running against David Whittemore. Privileged, entitled jackass. Stiles head flicks up when he hears footsteps. Finstock is marching down the corridor and wow; he literally hasn’t aged since Stiles last saw him.

 

“Let’s get this over with,” Finstock barks. Stiles smiles to himself. Finstock hasn’t learned how to speak at a volume that’s anything less than loud. Finstock pushes past them, flopping down into his usual seat.

 

And that leaves Stiles staring at the man who had been walking behind Finstock.

 

“Hey Dad,” Stiles says. John looks like he wants to hug Stiles but isn’t sure if Stiles will let him.

 

“Dad?” Scott whispers, sharing a look of utter confusion with his beta.

 

“Hi son,” John replies.

 

There’s a moment of silence.

 

Then.

 

“Are you smoking?”

 

//

 

Stiles knew the smoking was going to be a sore point but jeez he’s twenty-nine, he can make his own decisions and he reminds his Dad of this.

 

“For fuck’s sake Dad, I’m twenty nine.”

 

“I don’t care how old you are!” John retorts. “Hand over the cigarettes.”

 

Stiles sighs exasperatedly, slapping the box into his Dad’s outstretched hand.

 

“I can’t believe you would even consider starting smoking,” John says.

 

“It’s better than a blood magic addiction,” Stiles mutters. John’s face falls momentarily but he manages to school his features back to concerned parent.

 

“Be that as it may, you know what smoking leads to. You know better than this.”

 

“Well it’s better than drinking away the pain,” Stiles snaps, “But I hear that method is very effective.”

 

“Neither is an effective coping mechanism Stiles,” John says quietly.

 

“Oh do as I say, not what I do right?” Stiles scoffs.

 

“Stiles don’t be childish.”

 

“CHILDISH? THAT’S CUTE, REALLY.”

 

Stiles knows he’s shouting but he’s just so angry. His Dad is the only person he’s kept in contact with, the only person he told where he was and his Dad just gave away that information like it was nothing. John knew what this town did to him, knew that dragging Stiles back here could be triggering at best. Stiles is pretty sure that the worst-case scenario is that this town will kill him and he doesn’t want his Dad to see that.

 

“AND ANOTHER THING, I TOLD YOU THAT I DIDN’T WANT ANYONE TO KNOW WHERE I WAS. I TRUSTED YOU TO KEEP THAT SECRET!”

 

“THIS TOWN IS IN DANGER, WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?”

 

Stiles hates this fucking town. This town took his mom, it took his innocence, it took his happiness and it won’t stop until it takes everything else. He pushes past his Dad, storming through the door. Everyone pretends as if they weren’t all eavesdropping.

 

It’s reassuring to Stiles when Finstock asks if the cigarettes are going cheap now. Finstock can be relied on to steamroll through any awkward situation.

 

God being in this room gives him a sense of obligation. It’s an anchor tied to his waist dragging behind him. This room is a reminder of what he had, what he gave up. What he’ll be leaving once this ordeal is over. Because Stiles isn’t delusional, he fucked up more that his relationship with Peter when he left.

 

Wolves are loyal creatures.

 

“Perhaps we should return to the matter in hand,” Talia suggests, narrowing her eyes at Finstock. “Stiles, would you care to explain?”

 

Stiles pushes himself off the wall, taking the only available seat. He’s aware of the suspicion in Chris’s eyes, the wariness in Talia’s. Thankfully Finstock looks bored, Deaton impassive and John is avoiding his gaze. Stiles deliberately keeps his gaze away from Peter who is observing him with those intense, calculating eyes of his.

 

“The Nematon, which I’ve now re-bonded with by the way,” Stiles says, managing to avoid physically shuddering as he recalls the feeling, “And that was an awful experience not to be repeated, is being poisoned on a daily, well more likely, nightly basis. Understandably it’s unhappy because it’s clinging onto life by the tips of it’s roots and if it keeps going that way, it’s gonna level the entire town, supernatural creatures first.”

 

“What are the options?” Chris asks, straight to the point and with very little emotion in his voice. Stiles has never quite been comfortable with Chris. He’s an honorable man, a protective father and dedicated husband. But Gerard raised him so there must be something in his psyche that’s damaged. Kate was proof of that.

 

“The Nematon needs blood,” Stiles states. He wishes he could have had a cigarette before the meeting. “Literally an entire town full, drained completely dry, which of course defeats the purpose of cleansing the thing in the first place,” Stiles replies. He’s tapping his fingers against his thighs in a repeated pattern, index finger, pinky, index, ring.

 

“Couldn’t it be bagged blood?” Scott asks, “Like from a blood bank.”

 

Stiles shakes his head.

 

“Hate to sound like a Broadway musical, but must be blood, must be fresh. Bagged isn’t going to work, it’s dead blood to the Nematon and animal blood isn’t going to cut it either. Plus that’ll end up with animal right’s protests from here to Kentucky and that’s something we don’t need to deal with on top of this madness. We need to be careful about this; I really don’t want to have to explain anything to the NRDC if I’m honest, seeing as I’m no longer on their consultancy payroll. The less government involvement the better.”

 

There’s also the fact that the government thinks he’s dead, and Stiles really doesn’t want to have to explain how he’s alive. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare and would also involve becoming a consultant again, which means more blood magic, which means higher chance of Stiles going off the proverbial rails.

 

“Are there any other options?” Talia asks, “Perhaps if we caught the person who’s poisoning the tree, would that help?”

 

“I don’t know, maybe,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his head, “The Nematon may be sentient but it’s still a tree, it doesn’t exactly have a linear or coherent thought process. I’m running blind if I’m perfectly honest.”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?” Scott’s beta asks, his tone doubting and arrogant. John bristles; ready to jump to Stiles defense but Stiles doesn’t need him to fight his battles.

 

So he laughs.

 

“Do you have any ideas pup?” Stiles enquires. The beta pales slightly. Stiles stands, fingers splaying out on the tabletop. “Been a werewolf about five minutes and think you know everything about the supernatural. By all means, go ask the Nematon what it wants; I’m sure you’ll divine something of value.”

 

“I didn’t,” The beta mutters but Stiles cuts him off.

 

“I have forgotten more about supernatural than you will ever know, so do not speak of things you do not understand.”

 

The beta sinks down into his chair, baring his throat. Complete submission. Stiles chuckles darkly.

 

“I’m going back to the Nematon to do some _divining_. If you don’t want to end up as the first sacrifice, you won’t follow me.”

 

Stiles leaves the room, whistling tunelessly as he goes. He’s pretty sure the beta doesn’t breathe again until Stiles is halfway down the corridor.

 

//

 

The Nematon is more complex than most give credit. Its thoughts aren’t always clear; it’s more about consciousness. Feeling. Perspective. It has a vast knowledge of its territory and whilst it can’t replicate human emotions in full, it has an understanding of them. It’s less Grandmother Willow and more Whomping Willow when it comes to sentience.

 

The Nematon creaks as it leans forward, a branch gently patting his forehead. A few leaves flutter down, landing in Stiles hair. Stiles smiles sadly.

 

“I shouldn’t have left you,” Stiles murmurs. He gets a stream of thoughts that mean _no you shouldn’t have_.

 

“I’m going to fix this,” Stiles says, “It’s gonna be ok.”

 

_Of course it is Stiles._

Peter finds him braiding dead flowers together less than twenty minutes later. Stiles was expecting him to. Peter always knew when he was lying.

 

“I knew you’d follow me,” Stiles says. The flowers come together easily, weaving into a strong braid.

 

“Your heartbeat may have been steady but you were lying back there. You know exactly what to do.”

 

Stiles hums. He plaits the stems of the flowers together some more, singing an enchantment softly as he does so. The flowers brighten, going from withered and grey to bright yellow and orange.

 

“The supermoon is less than a week away,” Stiles tells Peter, “We will all be hyped up on power. It would only take one sacrifice to reverse the damage.”

 

“The person who poisoned it in the first place,” Peter concludes.

 

“The universe is all about balance,” Stiles says, winding the chain of flowers around the truck of the tree. “The one to kill it should be the one to save it.”

 

“Well,” Peter muses, “We’d better find them then.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles murmurs, “We’d better.”

 

//

 

Stiles is invited back to the Hale House for lunch. He refuses to enter. Claims that he doesn’t want to clog up the house with cigarette smoke. In truth, he doesn’t want to go inside. The prospect of seeing his face cut out of photos or worse, his smiling face on the walls, is too daunting.

 

So Stiles stays out on the porch, smoking cigarette after cigarette. It’s raining but Stiles believes that it’s cleansing. The rain brings life. When the rain lets up, Stiles will return to the Nematon to collect soil samples, so that they can identify the poison. Until then, Stiles smokes and pretends that he doesn’t know that Peter is watching him from the kitchen window.

 

The Hales were nice enough to provide an ashtray. Stiles isn’t entirely sure where is came from. Werewolves tend to hate the smell of cigarette smoke. To be honest, Stiles isn’t partial to it either but after the first ten cigarettes it was easy to ignore the smell.

 

Eventually Stiles runs out of cigarettes. He checks his phone. Two missed calls from Braeden. There’s no sense in avoiding her and besides, Stiles needs her to do him a favor. He calls her, standing by the porch railings and tapping one finger on the damp wood.

 

“I’m in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says the moment that Braeden picks up. “And I need you to do me a favor.”

 

“Hold on a second. Beacon Hills. The town you swore never to return to and if you tried I was allowed to shoot you in the foot.”

 

“No,” Stiles replies sarcastically, “This is the nice Beacon Hills, with lots of beaches and drinks. You know, with little umbrellas?”

 

“Quoting a kids movie,” Braeden says. Stiles can feel the judgmental stare through the phone. “That proves you’re not possessed, so you must just be insane.”

 

“The Nematon is dying,” Stiles, states. Braeden pauses. It’s a lengthy pause, before a sharp intake of breath.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Shit is right,” Stiles mutters, “It’s being poisoned, so much so that it’s gonna take a freaking miracle to fix. I can’t let the town die, I’m not that callous.”

 

“I assume you’re going to use the Supermoon as a way to amp up power. And you don’t have a blood magic knife strong enough to channel that kind of power without shattering. So you need to see if I can get hold of one,” Braeden says.

 

“That’s the long and short of it yeah.”

 

Braeden goes quiet. Stiles can hear idle chatter in the background, the hiss of a kettle boiling. Stiles drums his fingers on the wooden railing, an erratic rhythm. It’s asking a lot from Braeden in a short space of time and in truth, Stiles isn’t above cashing in old favors for this.

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Braeden says eventually. Stiles lets out the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.

 

“Thank you,” Stiles says sincerely.

 

“Don’t thank me,” Braeden says, “I wouldn’t pin all your hopes on me just yet, it’s worth checking some occult websites, see if anyone’s selling. Also I think Violet has a shop in L.A now, worth asking there.”

 

Stiles groans. Stiles hasn’t seen Violet since Minsk, when he almost killed her and her boyfriend. To be fair, Garrett was a stupid little shit, messing with dark magic and not knowing the consequences. They got off easy as far as Stiles is concerned.

 

“She’s harmless since you bound her magic,” Braeden points out but Stiles still doesn’t want to see her.

 

“I’ll check it out, I was planning to call in a few favors with Caitlin to get access to her lab anyway. Call me if you find anything. Stay safe.”

 

“Stay safe Stiles.”

 

Stiles hangs up, slipping the phone back into the front pocket of his jeans. The rain is letting up slightly. Stiles likes the smell of the forest after it’s rained, there’s something so pure about it. Stiles feels cleansed, as if cleaned from the soul outwards. He closes his eyes, slowing his breathe. Becoming calm.

 

He opens his eyes when the front door clicks shut. Peter’s making lunch so more than likely it’s ready. Stiles turns on his heel, a quip about Peter’s cooking on the tip of his tongue. He stops himself when he sees whose holding the bowl of soup. It takes him a few seconds to take it all in, eyes flicking over the broad shoulders, soft beard. The eyes are the same though, that weird amalgamation of greens and browns.

 

“Well,” Stiles says, the corners of his lips flicking up into a smirk, “Someone grew into their muscles.”

 

Derek ducks his head, tips of his ears flushing pink. He’s certainly grown into himself, no longer a gawky teenager whose muscles came before his growth spurt.

 

“You look the same.”

 

Stiles shrugs. He has a few more scars but he guesses that he does look the same as he did seven years ago. Perhaps a little gaunter. Derek sets the soup on the wicker table, nose wrinkling at the ashtray full of finished cigarettes.

 

“How have you been?” Derek asks awkwardly. Discomfort shows in the set of his jaw. “You look good, better I mean.”

 

“Derek, let’s skip the small talk, we both know it’s not your forte.”

 

Derek shrugs, shuffling from foot to foot. Stiles flumps down in a wicker chair, gesturing for Derek to do the same. Stiles eyes flicker gold as he flicks his wrist, making a cigarette out of thin air. It lights itself and Stiles takes a drag. Derek twitches his nose, ready to switch to breathing through his mouth.

 

“Go on, you can ask me whatever,” Stiles says, “It’s ok, you’re allowed.”

 

“You need to cut Peter some slack,” Derek says. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

 

“If I’m honest, didn’t think that’s where you were gonna start.”

 

“You were hurting,” Derek continues, presumably because if he stops, Stiles will just distract him and they’ll be on their fifth tangent by the time the rain lets up. “I understand that, I know that the Nogitsune hurt you in ways that we will never be able to understand. And I know you’re still hurting and coming back is like rubbing salt in the wound. But you don’t get to be mad at Peter because it’s not his fault. He wanted to help you and you refused to let him. You shut him out so you don’t get to act like he wasn’t trying. He doesn’t deserve it and you’re better than that.”

 

Stiles leans forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. He takes another drag. The smoke curls up around him.

 

“And if I’m doing it deliberately? Giving him more reason to hate me?”

 

“Then you’re a dick,” Derek replies, folding his arms across his chest. Why is he wearing such a tight shirt, doesn’t he buy clothes that fit? “And you’re delusional.”

 

Stiles laughs, leaning back. He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray. Derek’s honesty is one of the things that Stiles has always appreciated about him. Derek isn’t afraid to mince words or soften the blow. If you need to be called out then Derek will do it. Stiles thinks it’s a Hale trait that is simply built into their DNA.

 

“I get that the broken asshole, don’t let anyone in, pretend feelings are for the weak shtick is an old cliché,” Stiles says, “But I can’t let Peter in again. I didn’t come back whole and I’ve spent the last seven years moving. Constantly. I don’t know how to be still anymore. I’ll keep moving until something or someone kills me or I die of old age, though I’m betting on the former. I don’t think I can be a romantic partner anymore.”

 

“No ones asking you to be,” Derek says, “Just don’t be a dick.”

 

“I’ve always been an asshole,” Stiles points out because that is true. He is always been an asshole, practically since birth. Derek smiles, a little sadly, a little wistful.

 

“Yes and that’s partly why Peter likes you in the first place. Just, instead of being angry and making him hate you; be civil. Even you can do that.”

 

“Alright,” Stiles concedes, holding up his hands in a mock placating gesture, “But only because you always were my favorite.”

 

Derek shakes his head, fondness seeping into that sad smile. Stiles twiddles his fingers until a cigarette appears. The end lights itself as the rain stops.

 

//

 

Peter and Scott accompany Stiles to collect samples from the Nematon. To be perfectly honest, Stiles isn’t entirely sure why Scott is here. He’s a nice kid, but seems idealistic and he’s dating a hunter, which seems a bit suicidal. Her family has access to a variety of weaponry and a history of prejudice; that’s a big fucking clue in Stiles opinion. Whatever, not like it affects Stiles in any way. Scott is currently standing at the edge of the clearing, probably texting his girlfriend. Stiles vaguely remembers that they’re waiting on someone who wanted to be part of the scientific aspect. Member of Scott’s pack, Stiles believes.

 

“Well, Derek kicked puberty in the ass didn’t he?” Stiles says conversationally, spooning dirt into little glass test tubes; he swiped them from the Sheriff’s station lab kits.

 

Peter snorts.

 

“If by that you mean he got taller and started doing weight training then yes.”

 

“Personality hasn’t changed much though,” Stiles notes, scraping bark into a petri dish.

 

“So he’s always been a moody scary badass,” Scott mutters.

 

“Oh please,” Stiles scoffs as he puts the petri dishes away. “You may believe that Derek is this stacked as fuck, intimidating badass but he’s actually an antisocial nerd who is so unbelievably awkward he can only communicate by glaring and raising his eyebrows.”

 

Stiles is exaggerating but only slightly. Derek may have grown up all pretty but he clearly hasn’t developed adequate social skills outside of his immediate family. Bless him.

 

“Really?” Scott asks, sounding somewhat disbelieving.

 

“The guy reads Juana Ines de la Cruz in the original Spanish,” Stiles says, “And until he was fourteen wouldn’t go into the attic because it was full of spider webs. Giant fucking nerd.”

 

Scott looks awestruck as if he’s just discovered the secrets of the universe. His phone buzzes and he jumps, almost dropping it on the floor. Stiles raises an eyebrow, pushing back his shirtsleeves. He catches Peter looking at his magical flower chain, eyeing it with mild awe. Stiles has learned a lot since he left. Travelling the world does that for you, Stiles has discovered a variety of magic that wasn’t known to him before.

 

“It’s a magical trip wire,” Stiles explains, “Anyone does any physical magic here, I’ll know. Bastard is probably doing it remotely but doesn’t hurt to have it.”

 

Peter nods. Scott stumbles over, still studying his phone.

 

“Lydia is at Allison’s going through the Argent bestiary. She’ll meet us tomorrow morning to do the analysis. And she’s threatened something that I don’t understand but is probably violent if we start without her.”

 

Scott shows Peter the phone, pointing to the word on the screen.

 

“Defenestration,” Peter reads aloud, “The act of throwing someone out a window.”

 

“Isn’t the English language amazing?” Stiles mutters. He’s starts digging a hole in the ground to examine the Nematon’s roots. “We have a word for the act of throwing someone out of a window but we don’t have a word for the day after tomorrow.”

 

“Fascinating,” Peter muses. Stiles can feel Peter’s eyes on him, can sense that they’re probably about to have an uncomfortable conversation.

 

“Where do you plan to stay this evening?” Peter asks, faux casual. Stiles manages not to grit his teeth, remembering Derek’s sad face and his promise to be a nicer person.

 

“Dad’s, on the sofa bed,” Stiles responds, standing up. He brushes dirt from his jeans, placing a root tip into a test tube and putting it into the satchel. He feels very CSI.

 

“Despite your heated argument this morning.”

 

Stiles shrugs.

 

“It’s my Dad,” Stiles says, “We fight, we interfere in each others lives. I harp at him about his diet, he moans about the smoking. But he’s my Dad, no matter what, we’ll make up and move on. I’m even gonna relent on the red meat consumption during my stay.”

 

Stiles loves his Dad. Their bond is somewhat strained and Stiles imagines that they probably wouldn’t be as close if his mom hadn’t died. It’s a terrible thought but true nonetheless. For a long time, all they had was each other. And Stiles kept in touch with John, made sure that he didn’t think his son was dead in a ditch somewhere. He couldn’t do that to his Dad.

 

“Not like I’ll be sleeping anyway,” Stiles mutters, detracting from the silence that has descended and stop Peter from working out that Stiles kept in touch with John. Peter has that look on his face like he just knows and Stiles feels guilty enough already.

 

“Nightmares?” Peter enquires.

 

Stiles sighs because now he’s opened that can of worms, swinging the satchel onto his shoulder.

 

“We should go before the light fades,” Stiles says, walking out of the clearing and away from the conversation.

 

//

 

Stiles doesn’t like his Dad’s new apartment. There’s nothing particularly wrong with it he just doesn’t like it. It’s a nice apartment, all things considered. It’s not drafty or moldy. There isn’t a layer of filth over every surface, or weird stains or mold in the bathroom. Stiles has stayed in a lot of shitty motels, he should be grateful for a warm, comfortable bed that doesn’t reek of other people’s sweat.

 

He is grateful. He just kind of wishes he was in a shitty motel.

 

Stiles stares at the ceiling. The room feels flat. The apartment feels flat. There’s no magic in the walls, not even the most basic of protection runes. It’s unsettling.

 

Stiles gets off the sofa bed. He rifles through his bag, pulling out clothes and chucking them on the floor. He’ll pick them up later. He finds the perfect knife; compact but perfectly balanced. Stiles closes his eyes, magic tingling through his veins. It seeps through, hot and cold simultaneously.

 

Stiles tilts his head to one side, gently circling it around to the other shoulder. His eyes open slowly, flickering between amber and pearlescent before settling on a hazy mix of the two. He moves the bookcase soundlessly, settling down cross-legged on the floor by the wall. He could trace the runes into the wall with magic but for Stiles, they are more powerful when carved.

 

He does it gently, trying not to make too much noise. However, John Stilinski has always had a sixth sense about his son and various perceived misdeeds that may be occurring. Plus he’s been home for about a half hour and it’s only like six in the evening, so it’s not like Stiles is doing this in the dead of night, under the cover of darkness.

 

“Son, what are you doing?”

 

Stiles looks up at John, eyes more pearlescent than amber. He smiles in what he hopes is a charming and roguish way. He probably looks guilty.

 

“Protection runes. You don’t have any, that’s very presumptuous and negligent of you.”

 

“Right,” John replies. He’s dressed in old sweats and a Beacon Hill’s Sheriff’s Department t-shirt that has reached that soft, fleece-like state. John perches on the edge of the sofa bed. Stiles turns back to the runes, finishing the curve end of a sigil that wards against ghosts. Not that there are likely to be ghosts in a apartment block that didn’t even exist when Stiles left but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

 

“Stiles,” John says. Stiles makes a wiggly hand gesture to imply that he’s concentrating but listening. “Are we gonna talk about you and Peter?”

 

Stiles jabs the knife into the wall, wincing when a bit of drywall hits him between the eyes.

 

“What’s there to say,” Stiles replies, twirling the knife in his hand. “We’ve had this discussion, multiple times. You even brought it up when I was calling you from jail in Brazil in the hopes you would send bail money. Thanks for that by the way.”

 

“I was actually referring to your treatment of him since you’ve been home,” John says.

 

Stiles notes that his Dad is choosing not to address Stiles criminal history, which is probably the best. He and Braeden don’t get arrested a lot but when they do, it’s usually for pretty spectacular reasons. Like Brazil, where Braeden got in a bar fight with two vampires, a succubus, four Mexican hunters and an irate warlock. Stiles ended up in jail because he was the one that made a flamethrower out of moonshine, canned deodorant and a lighter.

 

“Stiles,” John says pointedly. Stiles presses his forehead against the wall.

 

“Just give me a sec,” Stiles says. He mutters a few choice words, waving his hand over the wall. The runes glow hot white and melt away. The wall looks good as new. Well newish. Stiles gets up, stepping back and letting the bookcase slide back into place.

 

He sits down at the head of the sofa bed, facing his Dad. Stiles folds his legs under him, pulling a cushion into his lap.

 

“Derek already had this ‘ _you’re an asshole but you could be nicer’_ chat with me,” Stiles says, “I get that I need to be less hostile because it’s not his fault and so on.”

 

John gives Stiles a hard look, but there’s a sad softness around the edges of it. It’s a look that Stiles has grown used to.

 

“Son, it’s not his fault and neither is it yours. You’re being hard on Peter whilst also being hard on yourself. Give Peter and yourself a break.”

 

John claps a hand on Stiles shoulder, squeezing gently. His Dad doesn’t understand. He sees Stiles as the victim; an innocent caught up in the wrong kind of magic, possessed by an ancient creature he had no hope of trying to overcome. Stiles isn’t a victim, he’s a fucking disease.

 

The doorbell rings, making Stiles flinch. John gets up to answer it, another quick squeeze of Stiles shoulder as he does so. Stiles tosses the cushion aside, running a hand over his face. He blinks furiously as an eyelash gets stuck in his eye and misses the words exchanged at the door.

 

“Talia’s here, she’d like to talk to you” John says as he reenters. Stiles twists around on the sofa bed, wiping away the tears and the stray eyelash.

 

Talia stands in the doorway to the kitchen area, face passive. Stiles imagines that this conversation is not to update him about the Nematon and more than likely is going to be his first shouting match. He kind of wishes he was wearing more suitable clothes as opposed to threadbare dinosaur pajama bottoms and no shirt. He feels a sudden urge to cover himself.

 

“I’m gonna go get us some dinner,” John says, collecting a coat from the stand next to the bookcase.

 

“Go easy on the red meat,” Stiles says, words falling from his lips so easily; he almost forgot they were a habit. John smiles. Evidently he remembers too.

 

“Give up smoking,” John responds. Stiles rolls his eyes, noting that Talia has her lips pressed very thin, her eyes twinkling.

 

John ruffles Stiles hair as he passes, like he used to do when Stiles was young, even when he had the buzz cut. The front door clicks shut behind him. Stiles looks at Talia, scratching the back of his head.

 

“I’ll just um… grab a shirt, why don’t you take a seat in the kitchen?”

 

Talia nods, retreating into the kitchen behind her. Stiles scrambles off the bed, grabbing shirts off the floor. The only thing that really looks clean is his _I support single mom’s_ t-shirt and that’s wholly inappropriate given the situation. He really needs to get rid of that shirt. He ends up choosing a plain black hoodie. It’s a little warm but he pushes the sleeves up to the elbow and feels ok.

 

Talia chose the seat closest to the door, so Stiles has to walk around her to sit down opposite. He lounges in the chair, making sure to look Talia directly in the eyes.

 

“Firstly,” Talia says, “Tomorrow, you are to take the samples to be analyzed. The council has decided that a member of the Hale pack, a member of the McCall pack and a representative for the Argent’s will accompany you. That will most likely be Laura and Lydia Martin from the McCall pack. The Argents are as yet undecided but you will be picking up Lydia Martin from the Argent house.”

 

“Do I have to bring the Argent?” Stiles mutters. Talia smiles, dipping her head slightly. It’s a trait that Derek picked up; they look incredibly similar in that moment.

 

“Gerard Argent does not trust you due to the events of seven years ago, he thinks there are reasons to distrust your judgment and that you have ulterior motives” Talia continues, “And, whilst there has never been any actual evidence, the family still believes you to have had a hand in Kate’s disappearance.”

 

Stiles raises his eyes to the ceiling.

 

“No one seems to remember that she was grooming Derek, a freaking teenager, in the hopes of burning the Hale pack to the ground,” Stiles says, trying not to let too much anger slip into his tone.

 

“Nevertheless, in the interest of ‘ _fairness_ ’ you will be accompanied by the three representatives.”

 

Stiles nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose. God he hopes it’s someone he knows. Shit, it better not be some obscure hunter relative that he beat up in a bar once. The Argents are a large family; there are a fuckton of them, so it’s entirely possible that Stiles has come across some in the last seven years. And given the Argent genetic defect of extreme prejudice and arrogance, Stiles has probably had a fight with them.

 

Stiles turns his attention back to Talia. He knows what’s coming. The business is out of the way. Time to move onto the emotional distress and Stiles vanishing act.

 

“I found it curious,” Talia says, delicately, “That when you left, it took a while for the pack bonds to sever. Initially we believed that you would return, a few weeks, a couple of months at most. But then the bonds began to break, almost one by one.”

 

Stiles refuses to look away. He knows what he did, he takes full responsibility. Breaking a pack bond is like hacking off a limb. It’s painful and regardless of time or distance, the ghost of the limb remains, a haunting reminder.

 

“All except one,” Talia continues. The rims of her irises are tinted alpha red. “You left our bond intact. It’s weak admittedly but intact. Over the last seven years, I know exactly how many times you’ve been close to death, how many times you’ve been injured. You kept this bond open, however frail it might have been.”

 

“Is this a roundabout way of you telling me you’re still my alpha?” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Talia raises an eyebrow.

 

“I won’t question why you left it alone,” Talia says, “And I doubt that you would tell me. But you hurt the pack Stiles. You didn’t just abandon your fiancée but abandoned a pack. You know how much pain that causes. So, if after this job, you chose to leave again, you will break the bond.”

 

“Takes two to make a pack bond,” Stiles retorts. It’s childish but not untrue.

 

“You will break the bond,” Talia repeats. “If you chose to stay, we would welcome you back and give you the opportunity to become part of the pack again. But if you leave, that is it. I will not have you break my brother’s heart a second time. I will not have you hurt the pack a second time.”

 

People believe that Peter is the one who gets his hands dirty. He’s the right hand man; the one assumed to take out the threats. People forget how dangerous the alpha can be. Talia is kind, involved in the community, a good mother and a good leader. She’s also vicious, dedicated to the protection of her pack. If Stiles becomes a threat then she will destroy him. Because the safety of her pack is the most important thing.

 

“Duly noted,” Stiles says. “I’ll be round to pick up the Hale representative in the morning.”

 

Talia nods curtly. She gets to her feet, tucking in the chair behind her. She pauses in the doorway, hand on the frame.

 

“I would like it, if you chose to stay.”

 

She leaves before Stiles can reply. Talia always did like to have the last word.

 

//

 

Stiles wakes up to an empty apartment. Hardly surprising given the situation. The Nematon is a time bomb and finding the culprit is the highest priority, makes sense that John would head out early.

 

Stiles makes himself a black coffee, drinking it down without really thinking about it. No nightmares last night. A welcome break from the blood and the violence.

 

Stiles takes a quick shower, not bothering to do anything with his hair. It just lies flat against his forehead. He manages to find a clean t-shirt under the sofa bed. He’s searching around for the satchel of samples when he spots a denim jacket on the coat rack. He touches the sheepskin lining, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. It’s his or was his, Stiles left it here when he visited his Dad a few days before skipping town. He slips it on.

 

Driving to the Hale house doesn’t make nerves twist in his belly. It’s a surprising notion but Stiles doesn’t have anything to be afraid of anymore, at least when it comes to the pack and their opinion of him. He doesn’t bother honking the horn, the Hales will have been aware of his presence since he started up the track.

 

Stiles was honestly hoping Laura to be the Hale representative but the fact that Peter is the one who comes striding over to the Jeep, reminds Stiles that what you hope for is guaranteed to not be what you get. But he can be civil. And not just because he has Derek and his Dad looming over him metaphorically.

Stiles starts ranting the moment Peter gets into the jeep, roaring off down the drive.

 

“We’re picking Lydia Martin up at the Argent house. Apparently cause Argent Senior still doesn’t trust me after the whole Kate was deranged and psychotically violent and tried to burn the Hale House down so I may or may not have sacrificed her to the Nematon thing though it’s never been proven, so he’s sending an Argent with us to analyse the samples. Because apparently I have ‘ _ulterior motives_ ’ and there are reasons to ‘ _distrust my judgment_ ’, which fair enough, I understand that seven years ago I wasn’t exactly rocking good decision making. But it’s still rude, like I have changed as a person since then. Personally I’m hoping Allison was chosen, cause Scott is super into this chick and after the aforementioned Kate debacle, I feel like I need to vet her.”

 

“Out of concern for Scott’s pack or ours?” Peter enquires.

 

“Ours?” Stiles replies, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Slip of the tongue,” Peter retorts, instantly defensive. “You didn’t answer the question.”

 

The Jeep turns onto the main high street, heading east.

 

“I’m concerned about the Argent family as a whole,” Stiles replies. It’s true; the Argent family doesn’t exactly scream ‘ _trustworthy’_ or ‘ _sane_ ’. “The only one I’ve ever trusted is Chris and trust is a really loose term, more like I know he’ll come through on the bunch of favors he owes me cause he’s all honorable and shit.”

 

Chris owes him so goddamn much. Stiles has a list somewhere of all the shit Chris owes him. Admittedly Stiles has not murdering Gerard on there like five times but considering how much of a dickhead Gerard is, Stiles restraint should be commended.

 

Stiles pulls up outside of the Argent house. Two girls are on the curb, one brunette hidden behind a tower of ancient books; the other a redhead with blood red nails, tapping away at her phone. Stiles winds down the window, sticking his head out.

 

“Lydia Martin?” Stiles asks. The redhead looks up at him. She’s very pretty and feels slightly intimidating. There’s also something _other_ about her but it’s weak, like it’s an undiscovered part of her.

 

“You’re Stiles Stilinski?” Lydia asks. She seems unimpressed with Stiles, as if she was expecting someone more impressive. Which rude, Stiles is totally impressive.

 

“The one and only,” Stiles replies, tilting his head to one side and smirking.

 

“Hi, I’m Allison,” The brunette says from behind the dusty books. Stiles refrains from doing anything outwardly to show his glee.

 

“Good,” Peter drawls, “We’re all acquainted, shall we get a move on?”

 

Allison and Lydia climb into the backseat and the Jeep screeches away from the curb. Stiles fiddles with the radio until he reaches the junction. He indicates and turns left.

 

“You’re going the wrong way,” Lydia points out.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. The thought of the hospital makes his stomach twinge. “We’re not using the hospital lab.”

 

“Why not?” Allison asks. Stiles eyes flick to the rear view mirror as he smirks.

 

“Cause nobody there owes me a favor.”

 

//

 

They hit traffic about half an hour after leaving Beacon Hills. Stiles is thankful when Lydia stops asking him about the freaking Nematon and eco structure and whatever other nonsense. He’s not exactly an expert in Nematon biology; he doesn’t have a fucking degree in it. Yeah, ok, when he was seventeen, he wrote a paper on it for the NRDC but it’s not like he really understands everything about it. The Nematon is the weirdest fucking thing, it’s like a person and whilst humans have the ability to anthropomorphize everything, it genuinely feels like a person living in the back of his skull. It pokes him feebly, reminding him that they need to cure it quickly.

 

“So.” Stiles drums his fingers on the steering wheel, looking for a conversation starter. “How many people are part of the Hale pack now?”

 

Peter turns his head from gazing at the window to stare at Stiles. Stiles looks at the Toyota in front because Derek/John never said he had to maintain eye contact.

 

“What?” Stiles says, trying not to sound too defensive. “I can’t ask.”

 

“Considering your refusal to set foot inside the house and frankly hostile attitude since I asked for your help, it seems strange that you would even care.”

 

“Wasn’t that the problem?” Stiles mutters. It’s a petty remark, designed to get a rise out of Peter. “Caring too much.”

 

“Derek and your father told you to be nice to me didn’t they?” Peter accuses. He sounds so dramatic and well, he’s not wrong.

 

“Well yeah, they did,” Stiles snaps. “But it doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

 

“Are you really going to do this now?” Lydia asks, before Peter can retort, “Not that I don’t believe in detailed communication in order to move forward from past grievances but perhaps now is not the time.”

 

Stiles huffs, turning the dial up on the radio. Bad Blood by Bastille is blasted through the speakers. Stiles is just grateful it wasn’t Taylor Swift.

 

//

  

Reaching L.A results in blazing summer heat. Stiles has to bang on the air conditioning a few times to get it to work.

 

Stiles can tell that everyone in the car is confused as to why they’re here.

 

“Where are we going?” Allison asks, right on cue.

 

“L.A Arboretum Library,” Stiles replies, flicking the indicator. “I have a friend who works in the supernatural lab below it, she has access to equipment that will be able to analyse the samples at a much higher level.”

 

Stiles met Caitlin when he first joined the NRDC. She’s a damn good botanist but a lousy poker player. Time for Stiles to cash in almost ten years worth of poker debts and I.O.U’s, some recently acquired, to utilize her access to some of the best and most expensive equipment available.

 

He parks, signaling for everyone to get out. The gardens are beautiful this time of year, bright and vibrant. Lydia comes up beside Stiles, ready to pepper him with questions. He’s happy to indulge now that he’s out of Beacon Hills. Lydia is extremely intelligent and eager to learn more. Stiles imagines that she and Caitlin will have a lot to talk about. Once they’re inside the library, Stiles holds up his hand so that everyone stops.

 

“Give me a minute,” Stiles says, swinging the duffle bag around to his right side before heading over to the front desk.

 

Chanda is behind the counter. She smiles happily when she sees him. Stiles always liked Chanda, she’s a damn good poker player. Stiles is pretty sure that Caitlin owes Chanda more money than she owes Stiles. Stiles was going to invite his NRDC colleagues to the wedding that never happened. Finally introduce them to Peter and the pack because both sides had been nagging and Chanda was convinced that Peter didn’t exist regardless of the engagement ring.

 

Chanda greets Stiles warmly in Khmer. It’s been a while since Stiles spoke Khmer but he manages to slip back into it easily. He flirts a little, which causes Chanda to roll her eyes. He then explains the situation, trying to keep it brief and shying away from the emotional turmoil that’s underlying this entire crisis. Chanda flicks her eyes over to Peter, raises an eyebrow but doesn’t make a comment, sliding the rune password for the lab access across the counter.

 

“Come on,” Stiles says, beckoning the group with his index finger. They follow behind him, through the colossal shelves. Stiles remembers being sixteen, filling out his paperwork on the desks in between banging his head against the wood because paperwork is super dull.

 

They reach the brick wall at the other end of the library. Stiles grins, remembering the time Caitlin accidently blew the door off because she messed with Stiles half-baked spell. Stiles traces the swirling shape of a rune with his index finger on the brick. It flares a bright neon green; there is a loud clicking sound and the door melts away.

 

The interior of the elevator hasn’t changed. Shiny metal and really bad elevator music. Lydia strides in, closely followed by Allison and Peter. Stiles grimaces at the fact he’ll be squished in against Peter, but sucks it up, pressing the neon number seven on the panel on his left. The door rematerializes as they begin their descent. Stiles hums along to the jaunty music so he doesn’t focus on how if he extended his fingers, he could brush against Peter’s. Because that would be incredibly sad.

 

The elevator dings shrilly when it reaches the seventh floor, the door sliding open to reveal the laboratory. Stiles exits first, whistling the tune from the elevator. It’s been over a year since he stepped foot into the lab. Technically the NRDC thinks he’s dead, but his friends have never ratted him out and he only ever comes to the LA lab, it’s not like he’s knocking on the door of the head office.

 

Caitlin is sat at the desk along the back wall. She’s focused on paperwork, red biro at the ready and orange headphones blasting that weird techno music she likes that is all noise and no lyrics. Stiles grins. Her headphones are soundproof, Caitlin can’t concentrate otherwise.

 

Stiles sneaks around the desk, till he’s standing behind her. He places his hands over her eyes, causing her to screech, swinging her arms about and catching him in the chest, causing him to stumble back a little. Caitlin rips her headphones off, standing up so she can turn around.

 

“Wienczyslaw Stilinski,” Caitlin says, using his first name against him like the traitor she is. God, he never should have played truth or dare with her when they were both super drunk. He also never should have taught her Polish swear words because her tirade is full of them. Jeez, you don’t see a woman for a year and it’s like you died.

 

In the middle of placating Caitlin as well as pointing out how much she owes him, Stiles notes that Peter is talking about him.

 

“When I knew him,” Peter is saying, “English, Polish, Ancient Greek, Latin, French, sketchy Mandarin and Japanese. He appears to have added Khmer to the list.”

 

 _When I knew him_. This turn of phrase makes Stiles rib ache as if someone has driven a wedge between them in order to pry them apart.

 

“Sketchy Mandarin?” Allison asks.

 

“My Mandarin is limited to ‘ _no those aren’t my suitcases_ ’ and ‘ _but you’re far too young to be a police officer_ ’,” Stiles says, cutting into the conversation. He manages to keep his tone light. “And yeah I added Khmer and decent Spanish to the list.”

 

“Decent Spanish?” Peter says, smirking. Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not like he was at high school very long to actually pass Spanish. He graduated at 15 after his powers manifested and ended up working for the NRDC at sixteen. Surprisingly knowing Spanish was not a requirement. Latin and Ancient Greek on the other hand.

 

“Yeah, yeah Hale,” Stiles, mutters, raising his middle finger and waving it in Peter’s direction. “Anyway, this is Caitlin.”

 

“Hello,” Caitlin says brightly.

 

“Caitlin is gonna analyse the samples for us,” Stiles says, clapping her on the shoulder. “Cause she’s a badass botanist and this way she can clear all the outstanding poker debts she owes me.”

 

“You cheat,” Caitlin grumbles, shoving Stiles playfully. He clutches his chest and gasps dramatically, putting his other hand to his forehead.

 

“Lies and slander.”

 

“Whatever Wienczyslaw,” Caitlin taunts, eyes lighting up in glee at Stiles indignant reaction.

 

“Shall we look at the samples?” Lydia suggests, using a tone that inspires compliance. Stiles obediently hands the samples over to Caitlin. Her eyes light up with glee. Within minutes Lydia and Caitlin are finishing each other’s sentences about scientific methods and Nematon ecology and to be honest, Stiles wants to leave them to it.

 

“So, Caitlin is gonna do her thing,” Stiles says, wandering over to where Allison and Peter are standing. “Which is likely to take a while. So, you can stay here and be bored by Lydia and Caitlin geeking out over botany or you know, it’s a nice day to walk around the gardens.”

 

“I might stay,” Allison says, pulling her satchel around to open it. “I have some homework that I should be doing even though most teachers aren’t too fussed given the current crisis.”

 

“What are you planning to do?” Peter asks, looking at Stiles. Peter looks like he would like to stick his claws into something or someone so Stiles figures he better entertain Peter for the next hour to avoid bloodshed.

 

“I have errands to run whilst we’re in the big city,” Stiles replies, “Do you want to come along?”

 

“Am I allowed?” Peter retorts. God, he is such a dick. Stiles is throwing him a bone here, promising to be civil and nice and maybe act like their entire relationship didn’t fall apart.

 

“Jeez,” Stiles snaps, “Come with me, don’t come with me, I really don’t care.”

 

He stomps off, not caring if Peter is following or not. It’s unsurprising that Peter is an aggravating asshole. Both of them like to push buttons until something breaks. Why break your own toys when you can break someone else’s?

 

Peter does follow Stiles, standing opposite him in the elevator. The music sounds suspiciously like jingle bells but Stiles hums it angrily anyway.

 

//

 

The decaying Nematon, for some unexplainable reason, seemed to suck the heat out of summer in Beacon Hills. Stiles, who is used to feeling cold as a natural state of being, had to layer up to feel warm. Contrastingly L.A is boiling. Stiles leaves his jacket in Roscoe, enjoying the sunshine on his skin.

 

The occult part of L.A hasn’t changed at all since Stiles was last here. The air sizzles with magic, it soaks into his tattoos, filling them with kinetic energy. Combined with the sun, Stiles actually feels good, at least physically.

 

Violet’s store sign comes into view, offensive purple with gold lettering. Stiles grimly remembers Minsk. Garrett’s black magic had gone full H.P Lovecraft, completely with lime and black tentacles. Stiles spent the better part of two days dealing with that catastrophe. It was bloody and violent and Stiles is surprised Garrett even survived the exorcism. Needless to say, Violet was not a fan of Stiles or his methods. Also, for someone who was happy to let his boyfriend play with dark magic, Violet has a lot of contempt for the rest of the magical community.

 

Especially werewolves.

 

Stiles throws a hand out to stop Peter.

 

“What?” Peter whines, pushing Stiles hand away. He’s not dealing well with the heat, squinting when Stiles points to the sign above their heads.

 

“Violet isn’t exactly a big fan of werewolves, it’s probably best if you wait outside.”

 

Peter snorts.

 

“If I recall correctly, someone was supposed to be keeping an eye on you,” Peter says. His tone is smug and it makes Stiles want to punch him.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles retorts, “But that was Allison and she was more than happy to stay behind. That’s not the point, I’m trying to save you from being turned into a fur coat.”

 

“I think I’ll take my chances,” Peter scoffs. He shoulders past Stiles, pushing open the shop door. Stiles grits his teeth and follows, just in time to see Peter topple into a candle display, a dagger sticking out of his shoulder.

 

“Jeez Violet, he’s with me,” Stiles says, stepping over Peter’s body. He resists the urge to throw his head back in mocking laughter, instead settling for squatting down so that he’s at eye level. He makes sure that he looks as smug as possible.

 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Stiles says. He yanks out the dagger, rolling his eyes at Peter’s snarl. He doesn’t help Peter up, instead twirling the knife around in his hands. The balance is good, the blade perfectly sharp. Easily manipulated for various spells. Stiles wonders if it’s for sale.

 

Violet emerges from the back of the store, brandishing a thermo cut wire. Stiles nearly lost a finger to that wire, he really does not want to have a repeat performance.

 

“You dare bring a werewolf into my store,” Violet hisses. Considering she lives in the occult part of L.A, you’d think she would have got over her bigotry but apparently not. Stiles runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth.

 

“I dare,” Stiles says, “Now are we gonna do business or are am I going to have to stop you murdering Peter? I’m assuming you don’t want a repeat of Minsk.”

 

Violet looks at the dagger in Stiles hands. She knows how good he is with even the dullest of spell blades. Stiles grin turns a little feral.

 

“Clean up the candles,” Violet barks at Peter, stalking to the counter along the back wall. Peter opens his mouth, Stiles can see the sarcastic remark forming on Peter’s tongue so he places a hand on Peter’s shoulder. The edge of Peter’s lip curls into a snarl. Stiles snaps his fingers, not paying attention to whether the candles clean themselves up.

 

Violet’s store is overflowing with spell ingredients. It’s rather well stocked all things considered. Some stuff even Stiles doesn’t know how to use and some of it, Stiles wasn’t even aware was still available. He knows that Violet will probably charge him extortion amounts if he tries to buy anything particularly flashy.

 

“What exactly do you want?” Violet asks. It’s through gritted teeth, as if she’s physically repulsed by the fact that she has to ask. She’s talking to Stiles but glaring at Peter, deliberately playing with her thermo cut wire until it becomes a necklace. He imagines Peter is doing something aggressive and werewolf-like in response, so he starts looking through the ornate stones in the box on the counter. He wonders if he can find a rose quartz, he’s almost out.

 

“Play nice children,” Stiles says mildly.

 

“What do you want Stilinski?” Violet repeats, smacking his hand away from the crystals. Stiles rubs his hand, pouting. Violet looks a few sarcastic remarks away from launching herself across the counter to strangle Peter so Stiles figures they better get this over with.

 

“I need ingredients for a tracking spell,” Stiles says, “Also a blood magic knife that’s strong enough to channel Supermoon level magic.”

 

“Perigee-syzygy?” Violet questions, eyebrow raised. Stiles nods. Violet looks skeptical but goes to gather the ingredients regardless.

 

“Tracking spell?” Peter murmurs in Stiles ear. Stiles is proud of the fact that he doesn’t shiver. Peter is so close, Stiles can smell his aftershave, feel his breath on the side of his neck.

 

“I reckon what’s poisoning the Nematon is probably unique,” Stiles replies, pulling a rose quartz crystal to the surface of the box, “I think I can use the spell to track where it came from, leading us to our sacrificial lamb, I mean culprit.”

 

Peter chuckles. Stiles finds himself smiling. They used to do this together. Go shopping for spell ingredients, Peter always offering to pay because in his mind, Stiles was a lowly government employee with no money. Back when they were dating.

 

Engaged.

 

Stiles looks up at Peter, though in truth they are almost the same height. Peter is watching his lips, close enough to kiss. Stiles wonders what would happen. If he closed the distance, put his hands on Peter’s waist, tugged him closer. Stiles thinks it would be sweet, a little desperate. Heated and intense. Relearning each other’s mouths, relearning each other’s bodies. Stiles wonders if Peter can smell how much he wants it.

 

Violet tuts loudly and the moment is gone. Peter steps away and Stiles reminds himself that he can’t have this. Can’t hurt Peter again.

 

“All the ingredients for a tracking spell, that’ll be twenty dollars” Violet says judgmentally, tapping the brown paper grocery bag she’d put on the counter. “I don’t own a knife powerful enough to channel perigee-syzygy, though I imagine your _mercenary_ would know where to find one.”

 

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.

 

“I’m sure,” Violet retorts, taking Stiles money. “Now get out.”

 

“Always a pleasure Violet,” Stiles says sweetly. Violet grimaces. Stiles grabs the paper bag, whistling as he leaves her store. Damn elevator music stuck in his head.

 

//

 

Stiles is so happy when he discovers that, _That’s All Folks_ diner is still open. Same 1970’s décor, same smell of succulent curly fries, same glittery jukebox in the corner. Cracked vinyl booths and mismatched floor tiles. The best part is that Peter hates it. It is everything Peter hates in an eating establishment, which Stiles revels in.

 

“For someone who relishes when negotiations go south and he gets to rip out a few throats, you are awfully precious about stains,” Stiles comments, perusing the laminated menu whilst Peter regards the booth with distain.

 

“Anything you eat here will probably kill you,” Peter says, watching the kitchen with narrow eyes.

 

“They have as much chance as the cigarettes,” Stiles mutters. He ignores Peter’s disapproving and slightly despondent expression.

 

A waitress with silvery blonde hair takes their order. Peter chooses black coffee, seemingly distrustful of the rest of the menu. Stiles refrains from pressing the rune at the top, which would change the content to the supernatural menu. Although he would love to see Peter’s expression when he saw the werewolf section.

 

Peter does not drink his coffee when it arrives, wrinkling his nose. Stiles dips his curly fries into his milkshake, partially because the taste is amazing but mostly because it annoys Peter. Stiles is half expecting Peter to slap Stiles hand to get him to stop or at least make a disdainful comment but Peter remains silent.

 

Instead, Peter is looking at Stiles with an expression that makes the ache in Stiles ribs increase tenfold. Peter is usually adept at hiding his emotions, carefully crafting a façade in order to manipulate those around him. But here, in this booth, Peter’s expression tells all.

 

“Could you stop it with the face,” Stiles says. Peter blinks as if unaware his face is not schooled into its usual knowing smugness.

 

“What face?” Peter asks.

 

“That face,” Stiles says, brandishing a curly fry at Peter. “The face where you’re pissed at me but you still want to kiss me.”

 

“I’m sorry my feelings inconvenience you,” Peter snaps, irises glinting preternatural blue at the edges. “It’s not like I had any real closure.”

 

Stiles leans back against the booth, ignoring how he can feel a few springs. Stiles really does not want to have this discussion. It’s like a nasty open wound, oozing blood and Stiles is too anxious to call the doctor so he’s going to ignore it until the limb falls off.

 

“Really we’re gonna do this here, in a crappy diner in the occult part of L.A.”

 

“It’s a conversation you’re eager to avoid,” Peter replies, “Why not in this awful diner?”

 

“Maybe I don’t want to make a scene, you dramatic bastard.”

 

Stiles pushes the remainder of his fries away. Peter sighs heavily. Stiles turns his head to look out the grimy window, hoping that his noncompliance will stop the conversation in its tracks.

 

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Peter asks. “You just up and left one day; no note, no explanation, you just left town and never came back. Don’t I have the right to be angry?”

 

“You have every right to be angry,” Stiles replies, turning back to look at Peter. “But don’t pretend that you don’t know why I left.”

 

Stiles won’t deny Peter his anger and he’s not going to act like what he did wasn’t incredibly shitty. But Peter has to have worked out why he did it. Peter’s not stupid.

 

“How would I know?” Peter growls, fangs threatening to drop. He’s a hair away from shifting, something Stiles would prefer to avoid. “You stopped talking to me. You shut me out. You took all that pain and kept it inside, locking it away from everyone. I wanted to help but you wouldn’t let me.”

 

“I’m not some broken toy you can put back together with love and acceptance,” Stiles hisses. He knows the metaphor isn’t exactly coherent but the point still stands.

 

“I never said you were,” Peter replies angrily, claws scraping along the underside of the table. “But we were fucking engaged Stiles, we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. I’m sorry that seven years wasn’t long enough for me to get over you.”

 

Stiles kicks the metal table leg, ignoring the jarring pain.

 

“You think that wasn’t the hardest choice I ever made,” Stiles says, voice low and tight. How can Peter not understand that? His fists curl and uncurl on the table, nails digging into his palms.

 

“Um, would you like the bill?”

 

Peter snatches the bill from the silvery blonde waitress, slapping money on the table. Stiles breathes out slowly through his nose, getting to his feet. Forces himself to remain calm, to rein in his magic. He doesn’t want to crack the counter or burst the light bulbs.

 

“We should get back to the lab,” Stiles mutters. He stalks from the booth and would have slammed the diner door had it not been on a soft close hinge. It rather destroys his dramatic exit.

 

//

 

The drive back to the lab is in tense, angry silence. The air around them practically sizzles with it and Roscoe’s radio responds by switching between terrible break up songs and songs about fighting. Stiles would turn it off if Roscoe would behave and not switch it back on immediately.

 

Caitlin is vibrating with excitement when they get down to the lab. She yanks Stiles over to her computer to show him the analysis and the other fancy science stuff she’d been doing in the time they’ve been gone.

 

“It’s a highly mutated herbicide,” Caitlin says, gesturing animatedly to the computer screen, which shows the poison on a molecular level.

 

“Highly mutated herbicide?” Stiles says slowly. It sounds more science than magic, which means that Stiles is sort of out of his depth. Ask him to craft a spell to burn a wendigo up from the inside out. No problem. Ask him about the molecular composition of a herbicide. Whoosh, over his head.

 

“The Nematon is a sentient being,” Lydia says, her tone implying that she thinks Stiles is very dim. Which rude, he’s the magic guy not the science guy. “You can’t just kill the exterior, you have to kill the soul too. This herbicide has been magically modified in order to kill the Nematon in every sense of the word.”

 

“It’s lashing out because it’s being ripped apart from the spirit out,” Stiles says. It makes sense, in a twisted sort of way. “That’s why it’s killing the town, the heart of the town is literally being destroyed. Jesus, whoever this person is, they’re either an bitter psychotic genius or dumber than a bag of rocks.”

 

“Can it be re-modified?” Peter asks, “Changed so it fixes the Nematon rather than destroys it?”

 

Caitlin scratches the back of her head.

 

“Not from the scientific end,” Caitlin says eventually. Stiles heart goes out to her, she looks miserable that science has failed her.

 

“Someone made this thing by playing God,” Allison states, “Let’s be better than them and try not to do the same.”

 

It’s a noble sentiment. It’s a shame that technically Stiles is going to play God by murdering the bastard in order to restore balance but hey, Allison’s clearly got her priorities sorted out. That’s a point in her favour really.

 

“Our original magic solution it is then,” Stiles says, collecting the petri dishes and test tubes. “But first we need to find the bastard.”

 

“A tracking spell?” Lydia enquires.

 

“Exactly,” Stiles replies, holding a test tube up to his eye, “Let’s find the nutjob.”

 

//

 

Stiles remains silent on the drive back to Beacon Hills, barely paying attention to what’s going on around him. He knows he has to talk to Peter eventually. His past has caught up with him, he can’t outrun it now and he owes Peter an explanation.

 

He loves Peter. Always has, always will. His love is sort of why he chose to leave. He felt that Peter deserved better. Deserved a chance to find someone else, maybe someone with a little less emotional damage. Someone who could love Peter the way he deserved to be loved.

 

Stiles wasn’t that person anymore. The Nogitsune had burrowed its way into his heart. Into his brain. A parasite revealing the worst parts of Stiles and giving him the ability to act on them. Stiles managed to mentally box it in, build up enough walls to restrain it. But the Nogitsune had given him a taste of power, a taste of what he could do.

 

And Stiles was ravenous for more.

 

A gnawing hunger. A lust that could only be slaked when Stiles was elbow deep in blood and gore.

 

Even when the Nogitsune was expelled, Stiles was hungry. He’d run his finger down the edge of his knives most nights, imagining what he could do, what he had done.

 

Stiles drops Allison and Lydia off at the Argent house. From their brief interaction, Stiles thinks Allison is more like Chris than Gerard. It’s reassuring to know; hopefully the next generation of Argents will be slightly more tolerant and diplomatic than their forefathers.

 

Stiles barely notices when Roscoe pulls up in front of the Hale House. He wouldn’t be surprised if she just drove herself. Peter starts to move, ready to get out. Stiles grabs Peter’s shoulder to stop him.

 

“Once we get the evil dick, you, me, Talia’s soundproof office,” Stiles says, “You can yell, I can yell, we sort out our issues.”

 

“Sounds great,” Peter replies, shaking Stiles hand off. He exits, stalking up the porch where Talia is waiting.

 

Stiles pulls away. He’s pretty sure that Roscoe drives him home.

 

//

 

Stiles doesn’t sleep. He alternates between staring at the ceiling and surfing the Internet, seeing if any occult websites are selling blood magic knives. He doesn’t find any.

 

He gets up at six, unable to stare at the ceiling any longer. He stretches, rubbing the back of his neck. His muscles feel knotted and tense, as if spent last night sleeping in the back of a flatbed truck rather than a sofa bed. He takes a long, hot shower, massaging his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension.

 

John is still asleep, so Stiles makes sure that he’s quiet, slipping out the front door.

 

The bakery on the corner of Maple and Second Street is just opening. Stiles smiles, breathing in the scent of fresh bread and spices. He used to come here with his mom, when he was actually awake early enough. Claudia would carry Stiles if he was still sleepy but they always walked; she liked to be the first one in, getting her pick of the fresh bread and pastries.

 

Stiles always liked the almond croissants, so he buys one and a raspberry and chocolate one for his Dad. He gets a loaf of brown bread, the one with poppy seeds on the top because that was always his mom’s favourite.

 

John is up by the time he gets back, pouring coffee into two mugs. He smiles at Stiles, accepting the croissant and bread.

 

“Your mom’s favourite,” John says softly. Stiles takes a mug, putting his own croissant on a plate.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He doesn’t say any more, afraid that the lump in his throat will crack his voice. John nods, pulling Stiles into a one armed hug.

 

//

 

Stiles knows that he’s going to need a magical anchor. Tracking spells in particular require someone to hold the mage down to avoid them floating off into the astral plane.

 

It’s going to be Peter. Peter is familiar with Stiles magic. Peter has been Stiles anchor for him before.

 

Stiles doesn’t want it to be Peter but there’s no point complaining about it now. Hopefully it won’t be as intimate as Stiles is fearing and Peter will keep his hands to himself so that Stiles doesn’t throw caution to the wind and just kiss him. It used to happen quite a bit after spells because Peter was incapable of not copping a feel.

 

The Hale House is oddly quiet when they arrive. Talia is waiting on the porch, arms folded over her chest. Stiles swallows nervously. He thought the bond was weak, a fragile strand of spider web that was ready to snap. Talia’s anger is making is thrum with energy. Her alpha power is crackling in the air; it washes over Stiles, making him want to bare his throat

 

John doesn’t seem to notice the obvious tension, climbing out of Roscoe and going around the back to get the supplies. Stiles manages to get out without too much of a hassle, although he nearly brains himself on the bumper when he slips on some fallen leaves.

 

Talia does not rein in her authority over him when he reaches the porch. He thuds up the steps, holding the spell ingredients close to his chest.

 

“You can set up in the basement,” Talia says. Her voice is even but Stiles can see the red glint at the edges of her irises.

 

“I’m going to need a magical anchor,” Stiles mumbles, looking down to avoid looking at Talia’s face. It’s not quite baring his throat but it’s close enough.

 

“I will fetch Peter,” Talia says icily.

 

Stiles hurries off to the basement, grimacing when he knocks his shoulder into the doorframe.

 

//

 

“Peter’s still your magical anchor then?” John says. Stiles binds together a smudge stick of clary sage, the end of it lighting with a fast wrist movement.

 

“More like he’s the only anchor in town who is familiar enough with my magic to not let me float off to a higher plane or whatever,” Stiles mutters flippantly. The Hale basement doesn’t really need that much cleansing, Stiles was probably the last one down here to do any serious magic but Stiles isn’t going to let any stray negative magical energy interfere.

 

‘”Anyway,” Stiles continues, “It’s not like I couldn’t get Braeden to come if I was doing serious magic.”

 

He’s trying to make it sound like he’s not dependent on Peter. Fully capable of finding another anchor, very versatile, does not need Peter.

 

Stiles finishes cleansing and starts setting up the candles. John looks up at Stiles, his face implying that he would like to say something but is choosing his words carefully.

 

“Have you and Peter had _the talk_ yet?” John asks eventually. Stiles knocks over a candle. The talk sounds like Peter has knocked him up and now Stiles should tell him that he’s going to be a father. Stiles shudders at the imagery.

 

“Did you have to say it like that, jeez Dad,” Stiles replies, “Once we’ve found the bastard...”

 

“Language Wienczyslaw!” John reprimands.

 

“Sorry, once we’ve found the _culprit,_ then Peter and I are gonna hash it out in Talia’s office.”

 

“Good, you should have done that a long time ago,” John, says. Stiles rolls his eyes, having had this argument so many times he can practically predict the entire conversation.

 

“Yeah, I’m well aware of that thank you.”

 

“Stiles,” John begins.

 

“We have a tree murderer to catch,” Stiles snaps, cutting his Dad off, “And a town to save, perhaps we should concentrate on that instead.”

 

Stiles grabs the pestle and mortar, throwing spell ingredients into the bowl and pounding it angrily before pouring it into black ceramic bowl. John lights a few candles, placing them in the corners of the room.

 

A few moments later, Peter and Talia enter. Stiles continues to mix spell ingredients in the bowl with one hand, murmuring under his breath whilst John unfolds a map of Beacon Hills, placing unlit candles on the corners to keep it flat. Stiles runs a finger down the handle of the knife that’s next to the bowl, caressing it lightly. It’s not particularly sharp, it doesn’t need to slice any flesh but still, Stiles likes checking the weight. The feel. He places the grinder down onto the table with a clunk. He picks up a glass bottle, uncorks it and drizzles an inky substance into the ceramic bowl.

 

“Well, let’s get this over with. Dad if you stand next to Talia,” Stiles instructs, “Peter come over here and prepare to shove your claws into the back of my neck should I decide to drift off beyond the mortal plane.”

 

Peter moves to Stiles side. Stiles almost expects him to reach out, reassure Stiles with a gentle caress or a soft kiss to his temple. He doesn’t.

 

Stiles clicks his fingers, the remaining candles igniting with a sizzle.

 

“Let’s catch ourselves a killer,” Stiles murmurs, uncorking a test tube and dropping the sample into the ceramic bowl. He then places a hand on Peter’s chest right where his heart is. It’s a familiar motion, a way to center himself. Soon they are breathing in sync. Stiles closes his eyes, putting both his hands into the ceramic bowl, covering them in the mixture. He lifts his hands out, placing them together as if in prayer. Stiles begins to chant, the mouth shaping the words to the spell easily. He can’t hear himself, it’s like he exists in a bubble. He can feel his magic, writhing inside him and he can feel Peter’s breath on the back of his neck.

 

He feels like he’s being tugged from the navel. He can see the map, stretching out all around him. He’s floating above everything, almost like he’s made of constellations and stardust. He is being pulled towards the source, a fish on a hook being reeled in. It’s a point of light in the distance. He’s hurtling towards it; the light fizzles and dances along his skin. It’s so bright that it almost hurts and Stiles should close his eyes but they are already closed, aren’t they?

 

When Stiles can see the room again, the knife in his hand is plunging down, piercing the map and embedding in the table beneath. The ingredients crackle and hiss, burning away the rest of the map until only the area around the knife is left. There is a faint smell of burnt plastic.

 

The candles extinguish themselves. The light bulb flickers back to life. Stiles is vaguely aware that he’s still holding the knife. Peter gingerly pries Stiles hand from the knife, whispering soothing nonsense in his ear. Stiles wants to fall back against him, tug Peter’s strong arms around him.

 

“Gotcha,” Stiles whispers instead, his lips curling into a smirk.

 

Peter makes a noise low in his throat, a comforting rumble. Stiles rubs the palms of his hands into his eyes, sliding his hands down his face and tilting his head back. He really, really wants nicotine. He didn’t have one this morning, trying to quit for his Dad. Looking up at the ceiling Stiles announces:

 

“I fancy a cigarette. I’m gonna have a cigarette.”

 

John coughs pointedly. Stiles ignores him, wrenching the knife out of the table and handing over the piece of map still relatively intact.

 

“That’s where the poison can be traced to,” Stiles says, moving out of Peter’s grip. “So you know, take your Deputies, kick down some doors, catch the dude red-handed and haul him off to jail.”

 

“And what will you be doing?” John asks.

 

“I’m going to have a cigarette,” Stiles states, walking towards the exit, “Then while you’re busting down doors and the village elders are meeting to discuss the fate of the asshole who’s killing the town, Peter and I are gonna have a screaming match in Talia’s office. You can start a betting pool on who comes out of that alive.”

 

Stiles smiles sarcastically, spinning on his heel and disappearing up the stairs. He doesn’t stop until he gets to Roscoe, rooting around in the back seat until he finds a stray cigarette. He doesn’t want to go to Talia’s office, he wants to hightail it out of here. Doesn’t even need to drive, just run until his lungs give out.

 

Stiles finishes his cigarette, grinding it under his foot.

 

//

 

It takes Stiles a little while to actually open the door. When he does so he finds Peter making himself a drink.

 

“You’re having a glass of whiskey before we’ve even spoken,” Stiles teases, closing the door behind him. “Isn’t that a little… presumptuous?”

 

He hoped it would ease the tension, maybe Peter would laugh. Peter does not. He ignores Stiles, placing the bottle back in the cabinet before turning around. He swirls the amber liquid around the glass a few times before taking a sip.

 

“So how do you want this to go?” Stiles asks, “I assume you’ve got questions and accusations and…”

 

Stiles trails off, looking down at his hands. He shuffles awkwardly for a few seconds, staring at his feet. He feels a little sick, his gut churning. He wants to throw up. He actually might.

 

“Why did you leave?” Peter asks. The words jar in Stiles throat. He can’t avoid this now, he has to tell the truth. Stiles is surprised that he isn’t sweating profusely.

 

“Because I couldn’t stay here anymore,” Stiles replies. The truth pours out of him, every bitter thought, every selfish notion. It spills from his lips, unfiltered. “I couldn’t stand the overwhelming pity that everyone felt for me, _poor damaged_ _Stiles_ , it must have been so hard for him. I was walking around with half the town’s blood on my hands and they all assumed I was this weak broken boy. They romanticized my pain; I was drowning in guilt and they made me into a fucking martyr.”

 

It almost feels good to say this. To yell and scream and just admit to everything he’s been thinking for the last seven years. All the guilt, all the pain, all the heartache bared for all to see. He’s ripping off the bandage, letting the blood flow free.

 

“You’ve never cared what other people thought of you,” Peter retorts, “And I never looked at you with pity.”

 

“I murdered an entire hospital corridor of people,” Stiles says, voice raw. “Plus countless others. And I had to live with that. I was looking at an abyss, and you either succumb to it or you take a step back but you cannot walk its edge for long. Leaving was my step back.”

 

“You were possessed!” Peter slams the glass down on Talia’s desk. Stiles flicks his wrist to make sure it doesn’t shatter. “You were possessed by a bastard of a fox spirit. It wasn’t your fault. Those deaths were never on your hands.”

 

“Oh please,” Stiles scoffs. He genuinely thought Peter knew. Or at least smart enough to work it out from Stiles behaviour. “Did you really think I wasn’t strong enough to contain the Nogitsune?”

 

“I saw it ripped out of your body,” Peter states. He doesn’t understand. He didn’t know. Stiles feels a little insulted that Peter didn’t work it out.

 

“I didn’t say I expelled it,” Stiles snaps. “From the moment I was possessed I started fighting. Until I was performing blood magic and I felt powerful. I remember everything I did, I was fully conscious of my actions and I liked it. I felt in control and it was **_glorious_**.”

 

Stiles remembers in vivid detail. The blood staining his hands, sprayed across the white hospital walls. Blood on his tongue, on his teeth. The rush of power, pleasure greater than any orgasm, any rush of endorphins.

 

“And then we were separated,” Stiles continues, trying not to look at his hands and see blood. “I was surrounded by the lives I had taken and I realized that I’d let power manipulate me into someone I didn’t recognize. I wrecked this town, and I couldn’t live with people viewing me like I was the casualty.”

 

“I don’t care about other people,” Peter snarls, “I don’t care about what you did. I love you; I have never stopped loving you. And you left me. You left me, without an explanation, without a discussion. I would have given whatever space and time you needed to heal, but you wouldn’t let me. You were wallowing in your grief, justified in doing so maybe, but you shut everyone out. You shut me out.”

 

Tears are threatening to escape Peter’s eyes. Stiles rubs furiously at his own eyes, refusing to cry.

 

“I never wanted to hurt you.” Stiles is looking directly at Peter, refusing to avoid his gaze. He steps forward, close enough for them to touch. He wants Peter to touch. “Out of all the people in this town, you and my Dad were the two people I never wanted to hurt. Guess I really fucked up there.”

 

“I would have run away with you,” Peter murmurs, “If you had just told me, I would have gone with you, wherever you wanted to go until you felt whole again.”

 

A bubble of hope inflates in Stiles chest. It was a thought he never considered, that Peter would have been willing to follow him. He wonders if Peter tried. If for a few months, Peter was a few steps behind him.

 

“I wanted to give you the chance to find someone better,” Stiles replies, “Someone stable. Someone who could be the husband or wife you deserved.”

 

“And the deal we made?” Peter enquires. Stiles exhales shakily.

 

“Blood magic corrupted me,” Stiles says, “The Nogitsune corrupted me. I needed to know that if it ever happened again, someone who loved me would end it.”

 

He knows it was cruel to ask Peter to kill him. But he just didn’t want a hunter to do it. To be put down like a rabid animal, unwanted and unloved. He wanted Peter to be the last face he ever saw. It’s a selfish thought but Stiles has always been a little selfish when it comes to Peter.

 

“I couldn’t deal with what I’d done so I left,” Stiles admits, “I ran away from my issues. I just wish it meant I hadn’t run away from you.”

 

There’s a split second where Stiles holds his breath, waiting for Peter’s forgiveness or his anger or any reaction. What he gets is Peter yanking him forward, crushing their mouths together.

 

Stiles moans, yanking Peter’s V-neck away from his hips so Stiles can get his hands on Peter’s waist. The skin is hot beneath his fingers, werewolves run hotter than humans and in this moment Stiles is thankful for it. Peter growls against Stiles mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. He starts to back Stiles up against the desk, moving to press soft kisses down Stiles cheek. Peter bites the skin beneath Stiles ear. That’s always been one of Stiles sensitive spots, his hips grinding against Peter. The friction is delicious, pleasure lighting up in his veins.

 

Peter is biting marks into his skin, staking his claim. Stiles knows it’s wrong to encourage this kind of behaviour but he always loved it when Peter got possessive. Liked it when Peter would bite and scratch and scent mark, warning any potential suitors to back off.

 

“Are you aggressively scent marking me?” Stiles pants. He’s hard and leaking in his underwear, desperate for some sort of release.

 

Peter growls in way of a reply.

 

“I’m gonna take that as a _fuck…_ yes!”

 

Peter is between Stiles thighs, nuzzling the soft skin. Stiles grips the edge of the desk, curses tumbling from his mouth. Peter’s is mouthing at Stiles cock through his boxers, making it wet and sticky. Then the boxers are removed, Peter suckling dark marks into Stiles thighs. Peter was always good at teasing Stiles, driving him to the edge over and over until Stiles was a needy, whining mess. Peter likes Stiles desperate, revels in the heady scent of desperation, arousal and precum.

 

Peter forces Stiles up, so that Stiles is on the desk rather than perched on its edge, smirking at Stiles expression. Stiles body is tingling with arousal, eager to be touched. He had slept with a few people in the last seven years, silly hook ups designed to relieve tension. Nothing serious, nothing major. Girls mostly, men just reminded Stiles of what he was missing.

 

“OH HOLY FUCK!” Stiles shouts. Peter is between his thighs, lapping at his hole with a tongue that is too long to be human. Peter’s hands are braced on Stiles knee and hip, claws digging in. God, Stiles has missed this. Being under Peter, being eaten out until he’s sopping wet and needy. He wants to be fucked so bad.

 

There’s a soft pop, lube from Peter’s drawer appearing beside Peter’s feet.

 

“Did you just magically create lube?” Peter asks, amused.

 

“No,” Stiles snaps, “I summoned it from the drawer in your bedside cabinet as it apparently hasn’t moved in seven years. Also who said you could stop?”

 

Stiles nudges Peter’s head with his knee. Peter looks up at him and Stiles smiles. A soft, eager smile. This is forgiveness, understanding. Stiles knows that the sacrifice under the Supermoon is going to be painful for them. He knows what he has to do and he has several contingency plans but it’s still going to be a shit show.

 

He wants to savor this. For however long he can have it.

 

Peter grins in return, grabbing the bottle of lube and drizzling some on his fingers. Peter stands up, pushing Stiles down so that he’s lying down fully on the desk. Stiles ignores the papers fluttering to the floor, concentrates on Peter’s face, the lust in his eyes, the affection. It's been so long since he's been fucked like this. 

 

Peter pushes a finger into Stiles hole and Stiles throws his head back. He leans over Stiles, caging his body. Stiles t-shirt has rucked up, so Peter places butterfly kisses along Stiles stomach. Soft, delicate, like Stiles is something to be treated with care.

 

“When was the last time someone played with your greedy hole hmm?” Peter muses. Peter talks dirty like it’s his second language. Enjoys telling Stiles what he would like to do to him in a offhand manner.

 

“Peter,” Stiles whines, shifting his hips. Peter adds another finger, keeping the stretch slow and maddening because he’s an asshole. Stiles grabs at Peter’s back, annoyed that Peter is still full dressed. There needs to be more nudity. Stiles needs to see Peter’s body, need to relearn it.

 

“God, why are you still wearing clothes?” Stiles pants, “Take them off.”

 

“I see you haven’t stopped being a bossy little thing,” Peter comments but obeys, ripping off his shirt. Peter was always eager to destroy his clothing instead of taking it off like a normal person, seemingly because it was quicker and he had money to replace it.

 

Stiles puts his hands on Peter’s shoulders. He pulls Peter closer until their foreheads are resting against each other. This is what Stiles loves the most, this kind of intimacy.

 

“Need you,” Stiles gasps, aware of how whiny he sounds. “Come on Peter, need you in me.”

 

Pushy,” Peter says, chuckling. He places a soft kiss against Stiles forehead. “You’re still a little tight, I want to get you nice and open for me.”

 

Stiles groans exasperatedly. Peter is such a fucking tease, likes being dominant and providing pleasure when it suits him. Peter adds a fourth finger, skating along Stiles prostate, almost touching but not quite. Stiles nails scratch along Peter’s back, his body rocking back and forth on Peter’s fingers.

 

“Peter if you don’t… fuck, fuck, if you don’t get in me soon, I swear to god I will punch you in your stupid perfect face,” Stiles threatens. Peter nuzzles Stiles neck.

 

“Condom?” Peter huffs into Stiles ear.

 

“Fucks sake, I’m clean, you’re clean,” Stiles growls, “Just fuck me already.”

 

Peter grins, presses a gentle kiss under Stiles ear before he pulls out his fingers. Stiles whimpers at the loss. Peter quickly retrieves the lube, slicking up his dick. He lines himself up before sliding in teasingly slow. Stiles exhales shakily, arms reaching up to yank Peter down for a messy kiss. It feel amazing, hot, liquid pleasure coiling in his gut.

 

“Come on,” Stiles whines, “Come on Peter, wanna feel fucking used.”

 

Peter’s eyes are more wolf than man. Stiles likes that display of power, a reminder that he isn’t the only supernatural being in the room. He begins thrusting leisurely, nuzzling at Stiles neck. Stiles eyes flutter closed, biting his bottom lip. He just wants to feel for a few moments, dull one sense in order for the others to compensate. Stiles wraps his legs around Peter, interlocking his ankles at the base of Peter’s back.

 

“Missed you,” Peter mumbles, increasing the pace of his thrusts. Rolls his hips in such a way that Stiles eyes snap open as Peter nails his prostate. Peter wraps a hand around Stiles cock, which has been neglected thus far. He times his thrusts with the jerk of his wrist, Stiles falling apart at the sensation. Stiles eyes open, he wants to see Peter.

 

Love. He can see it in Peter’s eyes, feel it in Peter’s touch.

 

A pleased growl forms in the base of Peter’s chest, escaping his lips as he presses sweet kisses over quivering flesh. The pleasure builds and builds until Stiles comes, going almost boneless. Peter finishes soon after, slumping over Stiles body, breathing hotly against sweat slick skin. Stiles feels protected, as if for a moment it’s just them. Stiles didn’t leave, they’ve just snuck off to have sex during the weekly family dinner. It’s all normal and fine and nothing’s broken.

 

“I missed you too,” Stiles says softly, reaching a hand up to gently stroke Peter’s head. Peter tilts Stiles head towards him so they can kiss. Stiles grins, enjoying how lazy and affectionate it is. Peter pulls away so that he can pull out gently. He probes at Stiles sensitive hole with his fingers, pushing his cum back in. Stiles resists the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“Jeez,” Stiles complains, “I forgot about that. Wolves and the whole scent thing.”

 

Peter hums before kissing Stiles again. Stiles loops his arms around the back of Peter’s neck in order to keep him from pulling away.

 

“You do realize I’m never letting you leave again,” Peter murmurs. It sends a thrum of happiness through Stiles chest.

 

“Yeah, no I figured as much,” Stiles replies. He hopes he doesn’t sound upset, he just knows what’s coming. Knows what he’ll have to sacrifice in order to save the town.

 

Peter growls playfully and Stiles laughs.

 

Stiles jeans vibrating and the theme to Scooby Doo blaring destroys the afterglow.

 

“Someone’s calling my jeans,” Stiles mutters stupidly. Eventually the cell stops ringing. Peter’s phone starts immediately after. Peter growls at it like a disgruntled puppy. Stiles chuckles.

 

“You can’t growl it into submission.”

 

Peter chuffs against Stiles neck as if to indicate otherwise. The phone goes to voicemail and Talia’s irritated voice drifts across the room.

 

“Goddamn it Peter, that room is sound proof not smell proof. You are gonna clean my office from top to bottom and you better not use the lemon pledge; it made the kitchen smell like an Applebee’s bathroom. Get downstairs now.”

 

“We’ve been summoned,” Stiles comments, managing not to cackle at Talia’s anger. Peter pushes the rest of the paperwork off of Talia’s desk, pouting.

 

//

 

Stiles is furious. Livid. Enraged. Anger is boiling in his veins and he wants to punch something.

 

“That’s the culprit?” Peter asks, disdainfully.

 

“He’s like twelve,” Stiles exclaims, looking at Deputy Parrish for a reasonable explanation for why he was outsmarted by a child. An idiotic preteen who probably hasn’t even reached puberty yet.

 

“Sixteen actually,” Parrish replies, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Caught him in the act though. I think he wet himself when he saw Talia’s fangs.”

 

“Who even is he?” Stiles asks. He cannot believe that a child with no magical energy on him whatsoever was capable of a scheme this intricate and devious. It’s just not possible. He’s not even gloating, he looks like he’d rather throw up.

 

“Matt Daehler,” Talia answers, exiting the Sheriff’s office, John following behind. “High school student. Started messing around with magic, believing it to have a more powerful effect on his issues than going to a therapist.”

 

“Well he sounds delightful,” Peter says dryly.

 

“I don’t believe it,” Stiles blurts, gesturing towards the cell, “This… this **infant** cannot be responsible for all this. There has to be something more.”

 

“We caught him in the process of doing the incantation, he was literally pouring the poison into a chalice along with bits of the Nematon,” John says, putting a hand on Stiles shoulder, “He’s also confessed.”

 

Stiles does not feel reassured. There has to be something else, something Stiles has missed.

 

“Our priority now is discussing what to do with him and saving the Nematon,” Talia says but Stiles is barely listening.

 

“Yeah saving the Nematon,” Stiles says vaguely, waving his hand at them in a dismissing manner. “I wanna talk to him. I’m gonna talk to him.”

 

“Is that wise?” Talia asks.

 

“I have to know how he did it,” Stiles says, “I have to know, it’s unlike any magic I’ve ever seen. I have to know.”

 

Stiles conjures a pen and paper out of thin air, scribbling what he remembers from Caitlin’s explanation down. He needs to know how he did it, it’s a type of magic that Stiles has never seen. Admittedly he and Peter have been a bit distracted by each other and their painful history, so Stiles knows he hasn’t been fully focused on this but now his curiosity is piqued. He has to know.

 

“You might as well let him,” Peter says, “You know he’ll just sneak back in later regardless.”

 

“That is a completely accurate statement,” Stiles says, grinning.

 

John sighs in that fond but exasperated way of his. Stiles just grins even wider.

 

//

 

“Matthew, Matthew, Matthew,” Stiles drawls, leaning against the bars of the cell. “How does a child with no conceivable magical talent, manage to create a poison that damages both the physical and spiritual forms of the Nematon?”

 

Matt remains silent. He trembles in the corner of the cell, his legs drawn up to his chest, hugging his knees.

 

Stiles runs a finger down one of the bars, grimacing at the dirt that he dislodges.

 

“See if I was you,” Stiles says, “I’d be gloating. Most don’t combine science and magic, it was truly inspired.”

 

Matt stares at his knees, ignoring Stiles. Stiles tilts his head to one side, studying the boy with narrowed eyes. There’s something a little off about him. Not supernaturally off, just that Matt has a creepy vibe. A vibe that suggests that he compliments girls only to turn around and call them bitches when they don’t reciprocate his feelings.

 

“Do you know what’s going to happen to you?” Stiles asks.

 

Matt shakes his head.

 

“Under the light of the Supermoon, yours truly.” Stiles points to himself with a sardonic grin. “Is gonna gut you like a fish and feed you to the Nematon. Restore the balance. Except I don’t think it will work quite right because whilst you’re the muscle, someone else is the brains.”

 

Stiles pauses, looking through the bars.

 

“No fancy lawyer is getting you out of here Matt,” Stiles says, “There’s no going straight to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. You are going to die. The question is are you going to die alone?”

 

“You don’t scare me,” Matt snaps. He looks up at Stiles, a snot nosed teenager thinking he’s older and wiser than he actually is. “And yeah, it was a clever piece of magic. A pesticide brewed with magical herbs under the new moon, it drains the Nematon, transferring that power to my partner to heal him. He’s not quite healed though; he still needs me to fix him by killing that stupid tree. He’s not going let me die, so your death threats mean nothing.”

 

Stiles grins like a lion standing over a dying gazelle.

 

“Well that’s me told then,” Stiles says. The lights overhead flicker. Matt watches them nervously.

 

“You don’t scare me,” Matt repeats but he sounds less sure now. He must know that Stiles could do anything to him and no one would intervene. The Sheriff isn’t here to be a moral compass and the deputies outside have been itching to put a bullet in him all day.

 

“But I could,” Stiles says. A light bulb bursts, glass raining down on Matt’s head. He throws himself out of the way, off the bench and onto the ground.

 

“I won’t tell you anything,” Matt snarls, jumping up and pressing against the bars. Stiles smirks. Matt looks like he’s trying to be scary, trying to make Stiles think he’s a genuine threat.

 

“You’re nothing,” Stiles says, “You’re not important Matt. He doesn’t need you. He won’t give you what he promised. He doesn’t care about a stupid little boy who got himself caught by a basic tracking spell.”

 

“I don’t need him to care,” Matt roars, spittle flying. “I just need him to get me out of here and hand over Allison.”

 

Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner folks. Matt’s face is a blotchy red; he doesn’t seem to know he just gave the game away.

 

“Gerard will let you die,” Stiles says quietly, enjoying the way Matt blanches, stumbling back from the bars.

 

“H-how?” Matt stammers. Stiles almost pities him.

 

“I look forward to killing you,” Stiles says. He leaves, whistling merrily as he goes. Matt screams after him, begging to make a deal. Stiles ignores him.

 

//

 

Peter isn’t the only one with a flare for dramatics.

 

“I’ve got the answer to all your problems,” Stiles declares, striding into the meeting room. Everyone has turned to look at him, Gerard included. This is just too good, Stiles is practically giddy with glee.

 

“Have you?” Gerard sneers. Stiles grins. He’s going to finally kill the old bastard and Gerard doesn’t even know. It’s so perfect.

 

“Oh yeah,” Stiles says, approaching the table. “I know how to fix the Nematon.”

 

Gerard looks unimpressed, but he’s the only one. Scott and Isaac are looking at Stiles with twin expressions of awe.

 

“How?” Talia asks.

 

“It’s the supermoon in two days,” Stiles states, “My power is gonna be at an all time high. I get a knife that’s good enough to channel that kind of power and I’d only need one blood magic spell to fix this whole debacle.”

 

“Only one blood magic spell to fix this whole debacle,” Gerard repeats mockingly.

 

“You say debacle weird,” Stiles retorts. If in doubt, go after pronunciation, it makes people so self-conscious.

 

“What’s the risk?” Finstock interjects before Gerard can reply. “There’s always a risk and reward in this kind of nonsense. Basic economic principle.”

 

“Sometimes I forget that you used to teach economics,” Stiles says, remembering the bark of Finstock’s voice over the lacrosse field. It’s unsettling.

 

“What’s the risk Stilinski?” Finstock barks. Stiles shivers before responding.

 

“Less of a risk, more like a terms and conditions. We need to sacrifice Matt Daehler to the Nematon.”

 

“What?” Scott exclaims, both outraged and perplexed. Beautiful, naïve, morally good Scott. Stiles kind of wants to wrap him in a blanket and give him hot chocolate. He’s so earnest and pure. Bless him.

 

“The universe is about balance,” Deaton says serenely, “The one that was killing the Nematon should be the one to save it.”

 

“Exactly D-man,” Stiles says, winking and shooting finger guns at Deaton. The corners of Deaton’s lips curl up slightly.

 

“I get that Matt Daehler is the bad guy,” Scott says, “He’s tried to kill the town and he has this weird obsession with Allison.”

 

Stiles will wait until after Gerard and Matt are dead to tell Scott that her grandfather tried to trade Allison to Matt to avoid death. He doesn’t think Scott would be so forgiving if he knew this little fact but it would spoil the whole plan Stiles had concocted on the way over here.

 

“But doesn’t killing him make us as bad as he is?” Scott continues, looking earnestly at Stiles.

 

“Scottie,” Stiles says softly, “Sometimes the bad guy has to die. And yeah, arguably that does make us as bad as him but there’s no other way around this. This is our chance to save the town with minimal damage.”

 

Scott looks distressed but nods. Stiles almost regrets this course of action because Scott does look like a kicked puppy but Gerard Argent needs to die. It's a fact. 

 

“So we’re all agreed,” Talia states, “Stiles will perform the ritual, using Daehler as a sacrifice.”

 

“Well this feels all a little Wicker Man,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his head. “But given the nature of this, I’m not actually that surprised. So, let’s truss that boy up like meat at a medieval reenactment banquet, stick an apple in his mouth and lash him to the Nematon.”

 

“You could be a little more tactful son,” John mutters whilst Finstock guffaws, slapping his hand on the table. He turns it into a cough under Scott’s reproachful glare. Stiles looks at Peter, sharing a hidden grin.

 

“Who’s going to be at the ritual?” Chris asks.

 

“Me obviously,” Stiles quips. He grins when Chris raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“I’m thinking the alphas in the room are going to want to stay with their packs, given how temperamental the Supermoon can make the supernatural,” Stiles continues, folding his arms across his chest. Talia inclines her head slightly, agreeing with Stiles statement.

 

“I want to be there,” Gerard states.

 

“I bet you do,” Stiles murmurs. He notes Peter’s expression, knows that he caught that little comment.

 

“You’ve been known for making bad decisions in the past,” Gerard continues. Stiles could cry at how ironic this whole situation is. This secret is going to be so hard to keep but so rewarding. “It would be best for all if you were observed closely.”

  

“Fine,” Stiles agrees, “You, me, Chris, Deaton and whatever deputy Dad sends along with the accused. Should be about a fun as stabbing myself in the eye with this pencil.”

 

Stiles twirls one of the mechanical pencils from the table around his fingers in an aggressive manner. Gerard isn’t intimidated, more’s the pity.

 

“I believe that Peter should be present also,” Talia says, alpha authority in her tone. “To act as Stiles magical anchor.”

 

“What about the Supermoon?” Gerard taunts. Stiles hopes that he screams when Stiles stabs him in the kneecap.

 

“My control is exemplary,” Peter replies coldly. Gerard looks unconvinced but he’s not going to argue with Talia. Stiles can’t wait to cut into his geriatric body and drain the entire thing. It’s going to be delicious.

 

“Well as fun as this has been,” Stiles says, tapping away at his phone, “I need to see someone about a knife.”

 

He salutes them as he walks backwards out of the room, still looking down at his phone.

 

//

 

Braeden texts him the address of a bar a few towns over. Stiles texts back his gratitude and that he’ll see her in a few hours. He gets a devil and a heart emoji in response.

 

Peter creeps up behind him in the hallway, placing his hands gently on Stiles hips. Stiles tucks his phone away so Peter can’t read the screen. He nuzzles at Stiles neck, kissing softly beneath Stiles ear. Stiles hums contently, turning his head so they can kiss mouth to mouth.

 

“Have you found a knife yet?” Peter enquires, hands sneaking beneath Stiles t-shirt in order to trace patterns onto bare skin. Stiles rolls his eyes at Peter’s actions but doesn’t push him away.

 

“I know where I can get one,” Stiles replies. Peter huffs against Stiles neck, tracing one of the bruises with his nose. Stiles knows he must smell like their combined scents.

 

“Need company to acquire it?” Peter asks eagerly.

 

“No, where I’m going isn’t exactly werewolf friendly,” Stiles says, turning in Peter’s arms so that he can face him. Peter looks disappointed and a tiny bit afraid. Almost like if he lets go of Stiles, Stiles will disappear forever.

 

“Don’t make that face,” Stiles mutters, reaching up to push Peter’s lips into a smile. “I need you here to make sure no one fucks up with my spell ingredients. And keep an eye on Gerard, that guy is just itching for me to fuck up so he has an excuse to legally shoot me.”

 

“Fine,” Peter replies sulkily. If the world was perfect, Stiles would go back to the Hale House and fuck Peter in their bed, make sure it smells like them again. But he has a job to do. And he needs to make sure that Gerard doesn’t make a run for it. He is going to sacrifice that dick to the Nematon if it’s the last thing he does.

 

“I’ll come to the house when I get back,” Stiles promises, “Then we can bang like a screen door in a hurricane and upset your entire family.”

 

Peter chuckles.

 

“I’ll hold you to that promise.”

 

//

 

For a hunter, Chris’s car is remarkable easy to break into. Stiles hides in the back, watching everyone trickle out of the meeting. He stays as quiet as possible, waiting for Chris to climb in and set off. Luckily Gerard doesn’t join him. It would be incredibly awkward to try and convince Chris to help kill his dad if his dad was, you know, present at the time.

 

“We should totally go to the MacDonald’s drive through,” Stiles says when he sits up. He’s slightly upset that Chris doesn’t even flinch at the sound of Stiles voice. He could at least pretend to be surprised.

 

“I’m not buying you anything,” Chris replies, flicking the indicator and turning into the MacDonald’s parking lot. Stiles pouts, clambering over the seats into the front.

 

“Aww, not even a milkshake?”

 

Chris buys him a strawberry milkshake. A small one. He parks in the far corner of the parking lot, under the flashing neon sign and changeable message board. Someone has changed the letters to say _Now Hiring Losers - $6 a hour_. They sit in silence for a while, Stiles happily drinking his milkshake and chewing on the plastic straw. Peter forbade him from having straw in the house because apparently the way he mutilated them was erotic and inappropriate.

 

“It’s Gerard isn’t it?” Chris says, breaking the silence. Stiles puts his milkshake on the dashboard.

 

“You knew?”

 

Chris shrugs.  


“I had a hunch. He’s been getting better even though his medication isn’t working. He’s been more secretive than usual, berating Allison for dating Scott, saying she should pick someone like that ‘ _photographer boy who takes pictures at the lacrosse games’_.”

 

“I’m going to have to kill him,” Stiles says, “He may put up a fight.”

 

“It’s alright Stiles,” Chris says, his voice tight, “You don’t need to explain. It needs to be done.”

 

Stiles can see Chris compartmentalizing. Dealing with the situation, planning time to mourn later. Stiles wishes he had the ability to process his emotions that way.

 

“I need a favor,” Stiles says. Chris raises an eyebrow but remains silent.

 

“If it wasn’t the Supermoon,” Stiles says, looking down at his hands, “I think I could do this spell without too much backlash. But I’m going to be more powerful than usual, I’m gonna be as powerful as I was with the Nogitsune inside me. And I know I’m not strong enough to stop myself from giving into it.”

 

“You need me to take you out if that happens,” Chris says. Stiles appreciates the matter-of-fact tone. Chris knows what needs to be done and does it. It’s a useful quality, one that Stiles is happy to exploit.

 

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I was trying to ask you,” Stiles says. Chris nods.

 

“Didn’t you ask Peter to do it?” Chris says. Stiles does not want to know how Chris knows that. The idea of communication between Peter and Chris is an alien concept that Stiles won’t examine too closely.

 

“I did,” Stiles admits, “But I can’t ask him to do that. I can’t make him, it’s cruel and selfish and I should never have asked in the first place.”

 

They sit in silence for a little longer. Stiles finishes his milkshake.

 

“You need a ride anywhere?” Chris asks.

 

“Nah,” Stiles says, opening the door, “I’m good. Gotta see a mercenary about a knife.”

 

He pauses, looking at Chris.

 

“I’m probably gonna say some things that I don’t mean when I’m hyped up on power, so I’m gonna apologize for that now.”

 

Chris nods curtly. Stiles slams the door shut. He watches Chris drive away, chucking his empty milkshake in a trash can. He sticks his fingers in his mouth, whistling shrilly. Roscoe comes trundling up behind him.

 

//

 

The concept of magic as being black or white is false. Magic is magic. The outcome of the spell can be good or bad, it depends on whose using it and to what end. It’s a matter of perspective.

 

This does not mean however that some magic isn’t banned. Hidden away to prevent it being used, declared immoral, reprehensible, too much like playing God.

 

Sometimes hiding things is the wrong idea. It encourages people to look. It creates a curiosity that can only be sated by seeking.

 

Stiles knows this spell is a little risky. There’s a reason it was buried in the Vatican archives. If he’s even a centimeter out of alignment, he could potentially blow himself up. Then he’d be dead, scattered over a wide area and no use to anyone.

 

Stiles closes his eyes. Slows his breathing. He searches within himself for his spark. The center of his magic. The center of his very being, the tiny flicker that makes him alive.

 

He finds it. Caramel apple sweet, candyfloss sugar melting on his tongue. It feels warm, like a summer’s evening in August. Stiles leans into it in the same way flowers bend toward the sun.

 

Then he pulls.

 

//

 

The bar is a refuge for hunters and it’s basically a glorified shack. Stiles is pretty sure that it doesn’t actually have a floor and that the owners are using the muddy ground as carpeting. It’s crawling with hunters, young and old. The air is thick with gunpowder and beer.

 

Braeden is in a shadowy corner, arm wrestling with a burly, Hispanic hunter with a hideous neck tattoo of a misshaped skull. She catches Stiles eye, slams the hunter’s hand to the table whilst maintaining eye contact. Stiles raises an eyebrow, unimpressed with her little display. The hunter doesn’t seem too happy either but skulks away, muttering bitterly. Stiles takes his seat.

 

“Having fun?” Stiles quips. Braeden gives him a smile that’s all bared teeth before downing the last of her JD and coke.

 

“You drinking?” Braeden asks. Stiles shakes his head. Braeden clicks her fingers at the bar. The bartender, a white man with a shaved head, nods, sending over a tired waitress with another glass.

 

“How’s Beacon Hills?” Braeden asks, once the waitress has walked away.

 

“A hellmouth, what else is new?” Stiles replies flippantly. “Did you get it?”

 

“What, no small talk?” Braeden teases, reaching below the table to root around in a black messenger bag.

 

“If this was any other situation, I’d flirt a little and buy you a drink,” Stiles responds, “But we’re on a time constraint here and I have a favor to ask.”

 

“A favor? Besides getting an extremely powerful knife which hey, I had to steal because it’s so goddamn rare and it’s owners weren’t eager to part with it.”

 

Braeden slides a non-descript box across the table. Stiles snatches it up, places a hand at either end. There’s a faint pop and it disappears, magically tucked away somewhere safe until it’s needed. The hunters here are sure to have noticed that but there’s a sign above the bar, if you’re gonna brawl, take it outside.

 

Stiles pulls a cigar case from his inside jacket pocket. It’s duct taped shut, slightly battered and warm like an open flame. Braeden looks from it to Stiles, mouth falling open.

 

“You didn’t?”

 

“It’s a backup plan,” Stiles explains, “A just in case it all goes to hell, plan Z kind of thing.”

 

“That spell is dangerous,” Braeden hisses. Stiles notes that she doesn’t comment on the fact that it’s also highly illegal and banned worldwide.

 

“And yet I’m still standing, go me.”

 

Braeden snatches the case from his hand, shoving it into the bag with little care. Stiles breathes a little easier knowing that she’ll be there in case this all goes to hell, which Stiles is 99% sure that it’s going to. He’s got several plans in motion, prepared for almost every scenario. There is nothing left unchecked.

 

“If you die,” Braeden threatens, “I’m gonna make your life hell.”

 

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Stiles says.

 

“Excuse me.”

 

The bartender has come over to their table. Up close, Stiles can see the faded scars on his neck and shoulders from battles past. He has a cigarette burn below his left ear.

 

“Those gentlemen over there,” The bartender continues, his accent a soft, southern drawl, pointing to a group of haggard and angry looking men at the other end of the bar, “Say they’d like a word with you miss. Claim you stole something of theirs, which they are eager to get back. If you’d be so kind as to take it outside, I don’t want no trouble in my place.”

 

“Shit,” Braeden mutters, “I thought I’d ditched them in Tampa.”

 

“Need a hand?” Stiles asks.

 

“You got time?”

 

Stiles shrugs, grabbing Braeden’s glass and drinking the last of the liquor. It burns on the way down.

 

“I could head back a little later.”

 

Braeden grins.

 

//

 

There’s something visceral about the connection of a closed fist with the side of an asshole’s jaw. Sometimes, Stiles likes to feel flesh connect with flesh, have bloodied knuckles and blooming bruises. Blood is dripping down his chin from his spilt lip, Stiles licks it away as he slams a hunter into the ground. The hunter struggles, spitting profanities but Stiles holds him by the throat, digging a thumb into the guy’s left eye until it bursts.

 

The hunter does not get up after that.

 

Stiles wipes sweat from his face, wincing at the sharp pain in his ribs. Braeden is bent down next to a hunter who is now missing several teeth. She’s rifling through his pockets until she finds a wallet.

 

“How much?” Stiles asks, limping over. A hunter managed to get a knife into the underside of his knee. Stiles returned the favor.

 

“A pitiful twenty dollars,” Braeden replies, standing up. “You ok to drive?”

 

Stiles waves away her concern, even though he’s clutching his side. Braeden doesn’t appear too injured, though she’s holding herself a little differently. Stiles knows that there are bruises hidden beneath the leather.

 

“I’ll see you in a few days then,” Stiles says. Braeden nods, tossing the wallet onto the ground.

 

“Try not to die Stilinski.”

 

Stiles laughs, ignoring the way it makes his ribs scream.

 

“No promises.”

 

//

 

Stiles pretty much lets Roscoe drive him home, only berating her mildly when she takes him to the Hale House. He squints through the windshield, trying to work out which family member is on the porch with Peter as Roscoe spins into park. He climbs out, staggering a little bit and makes his way to the porch. He aims for a reassuring smile before trying to make light of the serious pain and bloody appearance.

 

“Well the other guy is blind in his left eye so I think I got off alright,” Stiles says.

 

“Why did you ever come back here?” The girl on the porch spits, claws lengthening and retracting. It’s then that Stiles works out who she is. And then the pain mixes with stomach churning guilt.

 

“Cora,” Peter reprimands, “Now is not the time.”

 

“No, now is exactly the time,” Cora growls, jumping up and off the porch. Stiles backs up a couple of steps but lets Cora approach. She gets close, close enough that Stiles can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. He holds a hand up to stop Peter from pulling Cora away.

 

“Let her say her piece,” Stiles says, “She’s entitled to.”

 

“You abandoned the pack!” Cora yells, eyes flashing beta gold, “Do you know what that’s like for wolves? A bond deeper than family, it’s like losing a limb. You left and you didn’t come back for seven years and now everyone is playing happy families like it never ever happened. You don’t get to come back and act like your engagement was the only relationship you fucked up.”

 

They have an audience. Talia, Laura and Derek have come through the front door, they stand behind Peter. Eleanor is herding the younger cousins, nieces and nephews away from the open door. Talia makes a motion to intervene, but Stiles shakes his head slightly. Cora should be allowed to speak her mind, she’s allowed to be angry, to vent her frustrations.

 

“You hurt us all, I don’t think you can even comprehend how much!”

 

Cora’s hands are curled into fists; she’s pulling her arm back as if ready to punch but doesn’t follow through. Stiles reckons he’s be ok with her punching him, knows it would hurt far more than a hunter but he deserves this.

 

“If you want to take a swing,” Stiles says softly, “You can, might as well make my eyes match eh?”

 

Cora drops her fangs, pulls her arm back further but then lets it fall. In that moment she looks seven years old again, frustrated that she wasn’t allowed to wolf out at school.

 

“Cora,” Stiles says, “I am sorry. Sincerely.”

 

“It’s a bit too late for that,” Cora hisses, then shoulders past him, shifting and disappearing into the preserve.

 

Stiles sighs, which ends up with him spitting blood onto the ground.

 

“Derek, Laura,” Talia says, “Go after her, don’t let her hurt herself.”

 

Laura cracks her neck before she shifts, bounding off into the forest. Derek follows but nudges Stiles on the shoulder as he passes. Stiles thinks he rearranges his face into a smile but it’s started to go a bit numb, a sign that he should probably deal with his injuries.

 

“Let’s get you inside,” Talia says, sounding like an exasperated parent. Stiles limps up the steps, letting himself fall into Peter’s hands.

 

“If you even think about carrying me bridal style,” Stiles mutters, “I will punch you in the head.”

 

Peter doesn’t laugh.

 

//

 

Stiles hates Deaton’s home remedies. He has some strong smelling salve over his black eye that tingles like pins and needles. It’s unsettling.

 

“Fucking hell,” He hisses, trying to get away from Peter.

 

“Hold still,” Peter snaps, dabbing at Stiles lip with an antiseptic wipe, fingers digging into Stiles chin to keep him still.

 

“It fucking hurts,” Stiles grumbles, “Where’s the bloody salve for this kind of shit?”

 

“Your wounds need to be cleaned before they are magically healed,” Peter retorts, “If for nothing else to teach you a lesson.”

 

“Don’t pick a fight in a hunters bar,” Stiles replies, bending the truth a tiny bit, “Got it, lesson learnt, now let me heal myself, FUCK OW!”

 

“For someone so incredibly intelligent, you are so completely idiotic that even I am feeling physical pain at your stupidity. What if a hunter had pulled a gun on you and I was picking shot out of an limb?” Peter growls.

 

He turns away to grab salve from the first aid kit on the sink.

 

“Clearly you haven’t lost you ability to be completely reckless,” Peter continues. “I thought perhaps you would mellow with age and experience but apparently not. You continue to push limits. Eventually it will get you killed and I…”

 

Peter trails off, breathing deeply. He looks a heartbeat away from cracking the sink. Stiles looks down at his hands. Peter looks angrier with himself than he does Stiles, perhaps believing that if he had been present then Stiles wouldn’t need first aid. Stiles doesn’t want to tell him that he would be bloody regardless, that he likes the physical pain as it distracts him from the emotional, as idiotic as it sounds.

 

“At least Cora didn’t rip me apart as well,” Stiles says. It’s an attempt at levity but maybe isn’t the best segue.

 

“Perhaps she should of,” Peter snaps. He instantly looks as if he wants to take it back

 

“She’s entitled to, she’s right,” Stiles cuts in before Peter can do something stupid like apologize, “I didn’t just hurt you by leaving.”

 

Stiles sighs, running a hand over his face and decides to be a little more honest. The pain is loosening his lips maybe.

 

“I have spent the last seven years running. From city to city, country to country, all in an attempt to outrun my past. And probably to outrun the pain of abandoning my pack. Well, the pack, don’t really have a right to call it mine.”

 

Peter crouches down, so that he’s beneath Stiles line of vision. Stiles looks down at him, while Peter applies the salve to Stiles lip in a way that Stiles can only describe as tender.

 

“A month after you left,” Peter says softly, “It was Cora’s birthday. She sat on the porch all day, convinced you would come home because you’d promised to take her to Disneyland. When you didn’t come, I think it was then that she realized you weren’t coming home again. So yes, you did hurt the pack by leaving. That doesn’t mean you cannot earn your place again.”

 

Stiles forgot about that promise. He remembers it now, tiny Cora desperately wanting to go and see the Star Wars show and the Haunted Mansion ride. She was going to talk to the animators herself because there wasn’t a werewolf princess and that was just stupid. Stiles remembers laughing, remembers intertwining his pinky with Cora’s. He’s such a dick.

 

“You think Cora’s too old for Disneyland now?” Stiles jokes. Peter chuckles. He presses a kiss to Stiles forehead. It’s a comfort that Stiles perhaps doesn’t deserve. He craves it anyway.

 

“You would have to ask her,” Peter says, “But now, you need rest. Get into bed.”

 

“I think you’re going to have to do all the work tonight,” Stiles replies, happy to return to familiar territory. He runs a hand over the bruises on his chest, wincing. He grins lewdly at Peter anyway.

 

“We’re not having sex Stiles,” Peter says, helping Stiles to his feet. Stiles pouts. “Especially after I do this.” He grips the back of Stiles neck and the pain drain begins. Stiles vision and brain goes a little fuzzy and he’s sure he won’t remember anything after this in the morning.

 

//

 

Stiles wakes up bursting for a piss. Peter has taken it upon himself to plaster his body against Stiles and pin him to the bed. Stiles tries to shift away and gets an annoyed chuff in his ear.

 

“I need to pee, get the fuck off,” Stiles mutters, trying to move Peter’s hands. Peter makes another irritated noise but relents and Stiles escapes to the bathroom. He uses magic to clear up his injuries as he pees, a few choice words and the aches are gone. He washes away the salve, happy to get the feeling back around his eye and the crusty salve off his skin.

 

Peter is awake now though his eyes remain closed. Stiles climbs back into bed, throwing a leg over Peter and intertwining their fingers before pressing a soft kiss to Peter’s wrist.

 

“Morning,” Peter rumbles. His eyes blink open and he grins, leaning forward to press a sweet kiss on the corner of Stiles mouth. Stiles doesn’t let him lean back, hand gripping the back of Peter’ head to slant their mouths together. Peter’s fingertips glide up Stiles ribs, delicate, barely there touches that set Stiles skin alight. Stiles nips at Peter’s bottom lip in response.

 

“How opposed would you be to spending today in bed?” Stiles asks, looking up from underneath his eyelashes. He wants to spend today together, wants to properly relearn the taste and feel of Peter. It’s a selfish indulgence but Stiles wants to be selfish.

 

“We are not rutting in our underwear like teenagers,” Peter replies, tracing patterns with his index finger on Stiles thigh. Stiles snaps his fingers and their underwear disappear. He loves being magic sometimes.

 

“Problem solved,” Stiles says smugly, sliding down the bed until he’s positioned between Peter’s legs. Stiles nuzzles at Peter’s thighs, grinning happily. Peter is getting hard and Stiles hasn’t sucked dick in so long. This might just be a treat.

 

“Well,” Peter prompts, tilting his hips slightly.

 

“If you say it won’t suck itself, I’m withholding sex,” Stiles replies though it’s a lie because Peter has used it in bed before and well. Peter opens his mouth, presumably to say something pithy but it dissolves into a deep moan when Stiles swallows him down. Stiles hollows out his cheeks, sucking sloppily and loudly, grinning around Peter’s dick when Peter threads a hand into Stiles hair. Peter is trying to stop from bucking his hips up into Stiles mouth so Stiles suckles the head, tonguing the slit. Wants to tease Peter, get him wild and demanding.

 

It works. Peter pushes his cock deep and Stiles does his best not to choke. He loves this part, loves when Peter uses Stiles mouth. It makes his jaw aches in the best way. He’s rutting against the bed, hands on Peter’s hips, nails raking along his skin. Stiles pulls off and Peter yanks him up. They kiss, Peter tasting himself on Stiles lips.

 

Their cocks slide together, delicious friction . Peter runs a hand over the curve of Stiles ass, pressing a finger to a hole that’s still a little loose from yesterday but could do with a little stretching. Stiles snaps his hips forwards, gasping and wanting Peter to finger him. Peter grins, and they roll until Stiles is beneath him. Stiles knows that the hickey’s from yesterday will have disappeared from his magical fixer-upper, notes how displeased this makes Peter and how likely it is that his neck is going to be littered with them in a few minutes.

 

Stiles thinks he’s panting Peter’s name but he can’t tell. The sensation of being marked consumes him, it’s a wonderful pain. His skin is being branded.

 

“I’m going to open you up until you’re dripping for me,” Peter murmurs in Stiles ear, “Then I’m going to fuck you, long and hard and if I’m feeling generous, you might get to come before me.”

 

Peter brushes a hand across Stiles lap, a tease designed to make Stiles gasp. Stiles smirks, rolling his hips up against the air. Peter pushes Stiles thighs apart, ducking down to trace a drop of precum with his tongue. Stiles thighs twitch.

 

“You’re such a bastard,” Stiles mutters, head falling back. Peter hums in acknowledgement, digging his fingers into the rounded flesh of Stiles ass, pulling apart so he can see.

 

“Did you sleep around much when you were away?” Peter asks. There’s a possessive edge to his tone.

 

“Not much,” Stiles replies softly, “Mostly girls, guys reminded me of you but not in the ways that counted.”

 

Pete starts lapping at Stiles hole and everything becomes liquid pleasure. Quick, sharp pulses interspersed with gentle, slow laps, curling his tongue deliberately so it catches the rim. Stiles fists the sheets, whimpering. Peter works two fingers in easily but three is a snug fit. He nuzzles at Stiles thighs, biting bruises into soft flesh. Stiles cock is spurting precum in a steady stream, he’s so damn wet.

 

Stiles is pretty sure he’s cursing under his breath, hands gripping Peter’s shoulders as Peter stretches him. Peter keeps the stretch maddeningly slow because he likes Stiles at his mercy.

 

“Kiss me,” Stiles demands , “Please, Peter.”

 

Peter does, nipping at Stiles bottom lip. Their tongues twist together, a filthy reminder of what Peter can do to Stiles . Fuck him and fill him and use him until Stiles is sobbing. Stiles has other plans.

 

Peter sinks his teeth into Stiles taut neck and Stiles uses that distraction to flip them, sinking onto Peter’s throbbing length. Stiles bites his lip as he sinks down slowly, enjoying the stretch and the sensation of being full.

 

“So greedy,” Peter teases. Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“Next time I’m going to rim you until you come screaming my name,” Stiles retorts, hips rocking back and forth. Peter meets Stiles movements, eyes scanning over Stiles body in a reverent way. A broken noise slips out Stiles mouth, as he grinds into Peter’s lap. Peter pulls himself up so he can kiss Stiles, another filthy melding of mouths.

 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m close,” Stiles, pants, forehead resting against Peter’s. Peter growls and it’s the most animalistic noise Stiles has heard in a while. He wants to hear it again.

 

“Come on then,” Peter demands, “Gonna cum all over yourself like the dirty boy you are, hmm? Come on, let me see.”

 

Stiles lets go, cum spurting all over his chest. They tumble backwards on the bed, Peter’s hips thrusting forward as he laps at Stiles chest. Stiles whines at the overstimulation when Peter takes a nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his teeth until he thrusts himself to completion. He pulls out, falling beside Stiles.

 

Stiles turns towards him, throwing a leg over Peter’s hip and snuggling in close. The cum and sweat will settle onto their skin soon but Stiles knows that there’s no point in getting clean. He presses soft kisses into the hollow of Peter’s throat. Peter growls and then Stiles is on his back again. He grins.

 

//

 

Stiles stands at his altar, twirling the knife around his hands like a baton. The supermoon is making him feel on edge, his magic writhing beneath the skin. It’s a live wire, a white-hot heat in his veins but at the same time it’s like oil dripping through a hollow tube. He is present and yet detached; the very core of him is rattling around in a old cigar case but his body, his spark is here in this clearing. He feels like a puzzle missing a key piece to make up the whole picture.

 

Chris enters the clearing. They share a brief glance, a mere acknowledgement for what is to come before Chris stands off to one side and Stiles looks down at the altar. Everything is perfect, Deaton making the final adjustments. Gerard stops into the clearing after Chris, looking the paragon of health. Stiles keeps his face neutral. It would be a shame to give the game away. Soon it will be time.

 

“Deputy Parrish will arrive shortly,” Deaton announces, walking out from behind the altar and crossing the clearing to stand beside Peter. Parrish is bringing Matt, their little virgin sacrifice.

 

Stiles starts to prepare the spell ingredients. He mixes them one handed, uneager to let go of the knife. It doesn’t appear to be very powerful, a simple silver blade set into an wooden handle. It’s the runes carved into the base that gives it significance. Stiles’ magic flows through him in a way he’s never experienced before. It’s a smooth transition, easy as flicking a switch. The spell ingredients turn crimson. He feels the Nematon stroking his hair, a comforting gesture. Stiles dips the knife into the liquid, coating it until no silver can be seen.

 

Stiles tilts his head up when Matt’s shrill voice starts screeching. Parrish is dragging the idiotic boy behind him.

 

“Y-you can’t do this!” Matt yells, feet slipping as if he’s trying to stall. “I have rights.”

 

“Welcome to the world of the supernatural,” Stiles says, wishing someone had the forethought to gag Matt. “Nobody cares. Maybe you should have though about that before you tried to slaughter an entire town.”

 

“I..I.” Matt splutters as Parrish pushes him towards the altar. Stiles makes a quick gesture with his fingers, getting Matt onto the altar without more fuss. Parrish holds Matt down, hellhound claws extending to pierce through the shirt to the skin. Stiles cuts his clothes away, scooping up the ingredients to daub runes onto Matt’s pale skin. They aren’t typical blood magic symbols, Stiles isn’t sure how he knows to draw them but he does. It’s a compulsion. He bends down, casting a soundproof bubble around his mouth and Matt’s ear.

 

“I am going to spill your blood to atone for your sins. But don’t worry, you won’t be dying alone.”

 

Stiles stands back up, nodding to Parrish. Parrish lets go, retreating. Stiles extends his hand over the runes, magic burning in his fingertips. The runes glow ruby red.

 

“You shouldn’t play with magic that’s older than you are,” Stiles whispers. His voice sounds alien to him, as if he’s hearing it under water. The Nematon’s branches slither forward, wrapping around Matt’s body and pulling him flush against the trunk. Magic is thrumming in the air, Stiles can taste it on his tongue. He feels powerful, the kind of power that is ancient and terrible.

 

It’s intoxicating.

 

“The universe demands balance,” Stiles states, “The one that’s killing the Nematon should be the one to save it. Right Gerard?”

 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Gerard replies, his mouth twisting into a facsimile of a smile.

 

“Well,” Stiles says, nodding to Chris. “Almost.”

 

Chris moves quickly, twisting his father’s arm behind his back and forcing him to his knees. Gerard roars, a hand managing to sneak around to his left boot, taking the hidden dagger and stabbing Chris in the thigh. Chris grits his teeth before cracking the butt of his rifle on the base of Gerard’s back. Parrish begins to move forward as if to help but Stiles raises a hand. He’s tired of this.

 

“Enough,” Stiles says, flicking his wrist. Gerard’s rifle crumbles to ash and Chris’s wound heals. The Nematon creaks, branches reaching for Gerard. Chris allows the branches to wrap around Gerard’s limbs, to drag Gerard across the clearing and holding him in place against the bark. Stiles grins.

 

“Gerard taught Matt how to do it,” Peter says, finally catching on. To his credit, he’s been distracted. Nothing to keep your mind busy like the emotional turmoil of your fucked up relationship.

 

“This is nonsense,” Gerard yells, struggling against the thick wood, “You can’t prove anything.”

 

“Oh but we can,” Stiles says. He slathers his fingers in crimson fluid, eager to get the big reveal out of the way so he can carve into Gerard like he’s a jack-o-lantern. “You see, Matt here is too stupid to have done this on his own. And well, apply the right amount of pressure and all sorts of secrets spill out of his mouth. You promised him a betrothal to Allison in return for his help because you were too weak and too surrounded by hunters to pull off that kind of magic. As the Nematon got weaker, you got stronger; this kind of remission is nothing short of a miracle.”

 

Stiles tears Gerard’s clothes, smearing the runes into the wrinkled skin. They look like blood in the moonlight.

 

“Lies,” Gerard hisses. Stiles looks up at Gerard with pity.

 

“HE TOLD ME TO DO IT,” Matt shrieks, “HE TOLD ME I COULD MARRY ALLISON, THAT THIS WOULD WIN HER FAVOUR BY BRINGING HER GRANDFATHER BACK TO FULL HEALTH. HE LIED TO ME.”

 

“SHUT UP!” Gerard roars, eyes glittering with hate. Stiles is going to enjoy this, spilling this bastard’s blood is a sweet temptation now within reach.

 

“IF I’M BEING SACRIFICED, I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME!” Matt shouts, spittle flying from his mouth.

 

“Oh both of you shut up,” Stiles says, gesturing to both of them. Their mouths both clamp shut. The runes on Gerard’s skin turn golden. If there’s a conversation going on behind him, Stiles doesn’t pay attention. The moon’s power is pulsing within in, filling up the empty cracks.

 

“Perhaps we should begin the ritual,” Deaton says, bringing Stiles back to the moment. “The supermoon is in optimal position.”

 

Stiles can feel it as he twirls the knife through his fingers, now is the time. The knife is gleaming in the moonlight, almost like it’s sucked all the light out of the universe. It’s beautiful.

 

“Let’s make some magic,” Stiles says, the edges of his vision tinged gold.

 

Then he slashes Matt’s wrists. Not too deep, just enough to get a steady stream flowing. He wants to be precise with Matt, make each symbol careful and perfect. He carves each rune with care, makes each incision with the neatness of a surgeon. Blood sprays over his face, trickles down his hands and arms. He can taste it on his lips, feel it slipping down his chin.

 

The edges of his vision are black. Black like the void.

 

When it’s Gerard’s turn, well Stiles is allowed to have a little fun here. The bastard tried to kill an entire innocent town, he deserves a little pain. Stiles’ hands are slippery with blood but that doesn’t mean he can’t get a good grip on the skin to rip it away. He cracks a few bones, loving the sound they make as they splinter. Stiles carves a fresh set of runes into the meat of Gerard’s thigh, grinning when it withers away. Stiles almost wants to remove the spell keeping Gerard’s mouth shut to hear him scream. He bets the sound is delicious.

 

Stiles remembers what it was like when the Nogitsune showed him what he could do with blood magic if he really _applied_ himself. Remembers the sweet siren song of the void.

 

The power.

 

The control.

 

Stiles cuts Gerard’s throat, the blood spurting out like a fountain. The Nematon is soaking it all up, guzzling it like a man in the desert tasting water for the first time. Stiles is breathing heavily.

 

Pleasure is dancing along his spine. The kind of pleasure that is associated with power; liquid and hot like burning. Stiles never thought he would feel this way again, this in control, this omnipotent. God, he missed it.

 

Stiles lets the knife fall. He doesn’t need it anymore. He lifts his right arm, the blood is almost black in the moonlight. There’s nothing quite as exquisite as blood beneath a full moon. Stiles raises his palm to his mouth then licks from the base of it to the top of his middle finger. The taste explodes on his tongue, copper and iron.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says tentatively from behind him.

 

Stiles whirls around, his lips splitting into a wide grin. Peter looks nervous, claws at the ready to drag Stiles back to corporeal plane. It’s a shame that Stiles has already transcended. He is above all, he is part of the void and he _likes_ it.

 

“I forgot how **_good_** this feels,” Stiles says, staring at the blood all over his hands. It was more viscous last time but this will do. He has plenty of time to spill more. “Why did I give this up again? Oh that’s right, cause you ripped the Nogitsune out of me and I was forced to come to terms with my own conscience.”

 

Parrish steps forward, eyes glowing orange and fangs extending. Little hellhound, wanting to play with the big boys. Stiles raises a hand and Parrish starts whimpering, dropping to his knees and curling in on himself. Pain is easy to inflict; everything inside is just so squishy and fragile. Blood is dripping down Stiles face into his mouth.

 

Stiles wants to play.

 

“I could snap his neck,” Stiles says gleefully, “Or turn him inside out. The possibilities are endless. And you can’t kill me until the runes fade and the spell is complete otherwise the whole town will die. I mean it’s going to anyway but I want to give you a chance to try and stop me. I’m a good sport like that. And don’t even think of reaching for the tranquilizing dart Doctor Deaton.”

 

Stiles leaves Parrish crumpled on the ground, turning to watch Deaton. He clicks his fingers, smirking as Deaton flies backwards, crashing into a tree and crumpling on the grown beneath it. Stiles throws his head back as he laughs.

 

A gun goes off and Stiles feels a sharp pain in his kneecap. Stiles stumbles, crashing to the ground. He doesn’t stop grinning. Chris shoots Stiles other kneecap. Stiles doesn’t flinch. He’s not scared of the mean old hunter.

 

“Oh Christopher,” Stiles taunts, “You gonna kill me. Gonna kill me cause I killed your daddy. He kind of deserved it though. Maybe it’s cause of Kate. Little Kate, all the Argent’s think I killed her. She just disappeared one day and you found all those plans for burning down the Hale House with everyone still inside it, humans included. I did kill her. I tore into that weeping bitch and it felt so good. She was stoic throughout, barely made a sound. Sacrificed her to the Nematon for daring to even think about touching my pack. Afraid you can’t kill me though, that honor falls to Peter.”

 

Stiles looks at Peter, finally paying close attention. Peter is scared, uneager to rip out Stiles throat. As Stiles knew he would be. That’s why Chris is going to kill him. He knows it’s coming soon, knows that surrendering to the void is only temporary.

 

That tasting this power again is only temporary. It feels amazing, better than his strongest orgasm but it’s not sustainable. He’s a hollow vessel, devoid of the spark of life, being filled with corrupted blood magic. Once the host dies, the parasite can no longer be sustained.

 

“Can’t do it yet babe,” Stiles taunts, gesturing to the shimmering runes. Their light is fading but still present.

 

“Not that you’re going to,” Stiles continues, “You can’t kill the one you love. You’re weak. Your parents knew it, that’s why Talia became the alpha instead of you. Talia would kill me and she wouldn’t hesitate. She knows how to be a strong alpha. You’d be an awful alpha Peter, couldn’t protect me from possession, couldn’t stop me from leaving.”

 

Peter roars, eyes blazing. His voice is drowned out as the Nematon shudders back to life. The preserve rumbles, ground shaking. Stiles can sense it, balance has been restored. The Nematon rises high and proud, the bodies of Matt and Gerard melding into the bark. The forest is reborn. The runes are gone.

 

A choice is going to be made. Stiles is either going to walk away and lay waste to the Beacon Hills all over again or he’s going to die.

 

“It’s over,” Stiles sings. Peter is looking at him, eyes torn between horror and heart wrenching love. Stiles ignores the horror, focuses on the love.

 

The bullet doesn’t even hurt.

 

//

 

Limbo is like floating in zero gravity. Stiles thinks that he’s lying on his back but it’s hard to tell. It’s very peaceful here. For the first time in a while, Stiles isn’t weighed down by guilt. He just simply is.

 

Time isn’t really a thing in Limbo so he’s not sure how long he simply floats before his Mom arrives. She appears above him, looking healthy and whole. Not like the day she died, but like the day she picked him up from kindergarten and they went out for ice cream sundaes.

 

“Hi Mom,” Stiles says, “I think I’m dead.”

 

“Not quite Wienczyslaw,” Claudia replies, reaching down to brush the hair from Stiles’ forehead. “I believe your back up plan is already in motion.”

 

His back up plan. Highly illegal magic swiped from a Vatican archive.

 

//

 

_“Braeden, take a look at this,” Stiles says, beckoning her over. The late afternoon sun is shining through the window that Braeden has been opening, trying to get some air into this stuffy little room. It’s a maze of literature, ancient tomes mixed in with newer editions. All of them in Latin and giving the room a musty smell._

_“What?” She asks, looking over his shoulder to where Stiles is pointing. She frowns, tilting her head as if she can’t decide which way up the image is supposed to be viewed. It looks like a mage reaching inside themselves and pulling themselves out of their stomach but the images are merged together in such a way that it is impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends._

_“Is this relevant to our job?” Braeden asks._

_“Well,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his head, “I mean, technically no, but I keep seeing this reference all over the mythology. Not necessarily as part of my research into our case, but as a passing note. I think it’s a ritual or something, old, biblical type magic but there’s not enough detail to work out what exactly is going on.”_

_“You won’t find any,” A voice wheezes. Pietro, their host shuffles into the room, carrying a tray of wine and selection of meats. “That magic was thought to be too dangerous, all references were removed from the scripture.”_

_“What is it?” Stiles asks eagerly._  
  


_“Nothing we should care about,” Braeden reprimands, flicking Stiles’ ear._

_“Braeden is right,” Pietro says, placing the tray on the table and sitting opposite Stiles. “The only place to find an untarnished version would be deep in the Vatican archives, but you should not be looking at such magic.”_

_He winks at Stiles as he sips his wine._

_“Don’t even think about it,” Braeden says, “This is not a Dan Brown novel.”_

_Stiles shrugs, turning the page._

_//_

 

_“Hurry up,” Braeden hisses, slamming her elbow into the nose of the Vatican guard behind her. Another charges forward, yelling something authoritative. Braeden grabs him by the throat, uses his momentum to force him backwards to the ground._

_“Yeah I know, where’s Tom Hanks when you need him?” Stiles replies, flipping the page over. He has to take a couple of steps back to get the whole thing into the view of the camera._

_“Not funny Stilinski!” Braeden snaps. She has her arm around a guard’s throat; he’s scrambling to loosen her grip but eventually passes out._

_‘This is amazing,” Stiles says, “This is a spell for cheating death, for separating the very core of your life from your physical body as like an insurance policy. This is complex and ancient magic.”_

_“ **Fascinating** ,” Braeden says, “But seeing as more guards are on their way down here, perhaps you could hurry the fuck up.”_

_Stiles opens his mouth to retort but that’s when the first shot is fired. It ricochets off the glass wall above Braeden’s head, the glass splintering._

_“Right,” Stiles says, “Hurrying up.”_

 

//

 

“I miss you,” Stiles admits. Claudia smiles.

 

“I miss you too,” Claudia says, “But now is not your time. We will see each other again Wienczyslaw, give your father my love.”

 

She bends down to kiss his forehead, like she used to do every night before he went to sleep. Then she fades away, disappearing like a dandelion in the wind. Stiles closes his eyes and floats for a while longer.

 

//

 

Dying was painless. Easy. Coming back to life, not so much. His entire body is being twisted and contorted. He’s being sewn back together, piece by piece. All he can see is blinding white light. A cleansing light.

 

Bark beneath his fingertips. The scent of earth and wood. Stiles opens his eyes, blinking a few times to get everything in focus. Sunlight is streaming through the gaps in the leaves. It’s warm on his face. Stiles shuffles slightly, trying to assert which limbs are functional. In doing so, he dislodges himself from his perch and falls out of the tree.

 

“Motherfucker,” Stiles grunts when he hits the ground. “I think my knees are repairing themselves.”

 

Someone cups his face, tilting it upwards. Peter. An awe-struck but ultimately pleased Peter. He runs a finger over Stiles forehead, presumably tracing where the gunshot wound used to be. Peter buries his face in Stiles neck, scenting him. Stiles loops his arms around Peter, stroking his hair and whispering in a soothing tone.

 

“I’m ok, it’s ok.”

 

“How?” Peter asks, pulling back.

 

“It’s old magic, like biblically, beginning of times old,” Stiles replies, running a hand through his hair, “I kind of split myself apart, separating my life from my physical body, duct taped it shut in an 1930’s cigar case and gave to my buddy Braeden for safe keeping.”

 

Braeden, who has been standing a few feet away, judging Stiles, comes over and cuffs him on the back of the head.

 

“I ruined good boots for this,” She grumbles. Stiles knows she’s not that angry.

 

“How long was I dead for?” Stiles asks.

 

“Three days,” Peter says. He can’t keep his hands off Stiles body, checking for any other injuries. He won’t find any, Stiles is all shiny and new.

 

“Wow, I totally went Jesus on your ass,” Stiles says. He makes an attempt to move his legs but they only tingle angrily in response. “Also I think my legs are numb, you’re gonna have to carry me home.”

 

Braeden rolls her eyes, walking away, muttering about how these boots weren’t cheap. Peter picks Stiles up bridal style, nuzzling the top of Stiles head. Stiles clings to Peter’s shirt, pressing his face against Peter’s skin. For the first time in a while, Stiles isn’t craving a cigarette. He smiles.

 

//

 

When the people of Beacon Hills throw a party, they really throw a party. The preserve is full of people, young and old, and everyone is celebrating. Local restaurants have set up all over; the air is rich with the scent of so many types of food. Stiles helps himself to a samosa when a waiter walks past with a steaming tray of them.

 

He grabs a beer, flipping the cap off and catching it in his hand. He nearly gets knocked over when a gaggle of excited children run past, the Nematon scooping them up high into the branches. Stiles gets a quick stream of images; a pudgy kid sharing a bread roll with a crow; a little girl watching a line of ants with pure fascination. Stiles grins, patting the trunk of the Nematon as he passes.

 

Stiles moves around the edge of the makeshift dance floor. His Dad is dancing with Scott’s Mom, a pretty nurse called Melissa. She seems nice but no nonsense. Stiles figures that if his Dad was ready then Melissa is the kind of woman that Stiles would want him to start dating.

 

A young couple that want to thank him for what he’s done waylays him just as he spots Peter leaning against a tree. Stiles nods and smiles, shakes their hands before making his excuses. He doesn’t feel completely deserving of the gratitude, but still it’s nice to know that no one is holding his past against him.

 

“She’s going to eat him alive,” Stiles says, following Peter’s gaze to where Derek is tripping over his words as he speaks to Braeden. Braeden makes a strange gesture and Derek’s blush extends from his ears to his cheeks. Bless him.

 

“Has everyone finished congratulating you?” Peter asks, placing his empty wine glass on a nearby table. Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“God, my hand is numb from the amount of people who have shaken it,” Stiles complains, wiggling it at Peter, “I’m the town hero.”

 

Peter snorts, plucking the empty beer bottle from Stiles grip. Stiles raises an eyebrow, hoping that this is going where he thinks this is going.

 

“Exhibitionist,” Peter mutters. Their kiss is chaste but tender.

 

“You love it,” Stiles murmurs, hands sneaking under Peter’s shirt. Peter sighs dramatically but there’s a twinkle in his eye. He grabs Stiles by the V-neck (one of Peter’s because Stiles is not above using every resource available to get what he wants) and pulls him off into the woods.

 

They head for the lake, the music muted but still audible. Peter toes off his shoes and sock, rolling up his jeans.

 

“I’m not having sex with you in a lake,” Stiles states, “That’s how you get urinary-tract infections.”

 

“We’re not having sex,” Peter replies, leading Stiles over to the jetty, shoes clutched in his other hand.

 

“Pity,” Stiles teases. He clicks his fingers and his shoes disappear. They walk down the jetty hand in hand, stopping just before the end. Stiles flops down, dipping his feet in the cool water. The summer heat has returned, the night air is pleasantly warm. Peter sits down beside him, still clutching Stiles hand tightly.

 

“What have you been doing the last seven years?” Peter asks, staring at their hands. Stiles tilts his head back. The day is slipping into twilight, the sky is fading from cornflower blue to pink and gold.

 

“Mercenary work,” Stiles replies , “No blood magic. I met Braeden in a shifter bar in Nebraska. She knew what I was and needed my help. I guess I never stopped helping her. We’ve travelled the whole world, from job to job. That pottery shop was just a way of making money in between, Braeden went to visit an old friend a state over.”

 

Stiles breathes in deeply, huffing out on the exhale. He decides to be honest again, he wants to begin again with Peter and honesty is key to that.

 

“It felt good to help people. Felt like I was balancing out the blood on my hands with people we saved. It was just money to Braeden but it kind of felt like salvation to me. I mean I’m magically gifted, that’s not something I can get rid of but helping people rather than hurting, it kind of made me happy to be a mage again. I mean bit’s of me are scarred to hell but it was worth it.”

 

They sit in silence for a bit. Stiles knows that their relationship is by no means fixed. There is a lot of pain and anguish to work on, not to mention trust issues and the whole mess with the pack. He caught Talia’s eye a couple of times over the past few days, but what with organizing this celebration and letting himself heal, they’ve not spoken about his future with the pack. He knows that Talia is willing to let him stay, but whether anyone else will is another matter.

 

“Will you stay?” Peter whispers, breaking the silence. He sounds afraid, truly worried about Stiles answer.

 

“Will you let me?” Stiles replies.

 

“Yes,” Peter murmurs.

 

“Then let’s give it another shot.”

 

Peter pulls Stiles into a kiss as fireworks explode overhead.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all liked it - I'm not taking prompts on my [Tumblr](http://ladypigswagon.tumblr.com/) at the moment but I reblog a lot of poetry and teen wolf fics and I'm always game for a chat.


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